Price of Our Sins
by x XRoweenaJAugustineX x
Summary: Sylvia Baratheon daughter of Robert and Cersei, is sent north at 11 to be ward of Lady Catelyn Stark, and to get to know her betrothed, Robb Stark. When war rips through the land, and her family's sins come to light, can they ever forgive each other for what they've done, or will past wrongs, lies and deceit ruin them? I own nothing but Sylvia.
1. Prologue I

Hi :) This is one of the first parts to a new story running around in my head.

This will be a Robb/OC story, but I thought it was important to develop some foundation first.

**Disclaimer: We all know I own nothing**

* * *

_When she was just a girl _  
_She expected the world _  
_But it flew away from her reach so _  
_She ran away in her sleep_

_-Paradise by Coldplay_

**Prologue I**

When father told her she would marry Robert Baratheon and that she would be Queen of all the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei half wanted to laugh and half wanted to weep. Being Queen...it was all she'd ever wanted—the power made her dizzy; the title was sweet on her tongue; how everyone would _bow_ to her and do as she said no matter her gender was sweeter still—but a Queen's place was with her King, and a King's place was in the Capitol...with Jaime, her twin...her other half.

They'd _never_ been apart; they'd shared a womb, a childhood, a _life_...but then she was taken away to Court at twelve and Jaime was left behind at the Rock. Cersei found herself reaching for someone that wasn't there, listening for a voice hundreds of leagues away, and lying awake at night wishing her twin was there beside her, _in_ her, all around her, consuming her until she knew they were whole again. That had been ache she'd been able to handle, it was just her and Jaime after all, no husband or stupid cow of a wife to come between them. And when they were fifteen, when father had suggested Jaime marry that ugly fish Lysa Tully, it was Cersei who'd convinced him to join the Kingsguard, to be with her _always_, as they were meant to be. But that had failed when father interfered and took her back to Casterly Rock and left Jaime to guard the Mad King's sister-wife and son. Now Jaime would be part of Robert's Kingsguard.

In the wake of the rebellion, Robert Baratheon, the brave hero every girl in the Kingdoms wanted, had bought father's support when he promised to wed Cersei. Having Jaime so close in the Capitol would be a pain sweeter than blade's stab. Her sweet brother would want her, crave her, hate her husband for having her, but Robert would be her husband, not Jaime, and for once, she was content with that. She was happy with being queen and having a husband forged in steel. She'd always love her brother, much more than a sister should, but Robert was her future and she could not risk it if she continued on with Jaime.

Her stag was fierce and strong, and loved a woman so much he nearly burned all Seven Kingdoms for her. The thought made Cersei smile. He would love her like that, the Stark girl would fade away for him in time and soon he would see the beautiful golden lioness before him. Why wouldn't he? Everyone said Cersei was the most beautiful woman in the kingdoms, she knew the courtesies to say and how to use her mouth and hands and cunt (as perfected on Jaime, her sweet brother)...how could he _not_ fall madly, deeply in love with her?

Robert stank of wine when he crawled on top of her the night they wed. It bothered her but she said nothing. He was her king, lean and handsome and she felt something for him him—not love, but it could be. He had won Seven Kingdoms with his strength and power and she was Queen. Robert Baratheon was her King and her sons would rule the kingdoms long after she was dead, her bones turned to dust, and people would forever sing her name: Queen Cersei, mother of the greatest king who ever lived.

He wouldn't always be so in his cups, she thought as he rutted on top of her, stabbing her with his cock so hard it hurt her. Come morning light she would find bruises across her alabaster skin, ugly and purple and she would be sore between the legs for days after. She could live with bruises and pain, just this once, for they would fade, but she would still be queen. Next time Robert would—

"Lyanna," he grunted into her ear as he began to tense up, "Lyanna, _Lyanna!_" Her thoughts halted. Robert didn't notice the change in his bride, did not care when tears threatened to spill from her emerald eyes. Cersei never cried in front of anyone but Jaime, not since she was a child and at that moment she hated Robert for humiliating her like this and causing her tears. She felt him spill inside her and wanted to push him off and beat him bloody for _touching_ her while he thought of that rotted corpse_. 'I'm alive you drunk! I'm alive!'_ she wanted to scream, but she resisted, clenching her jaw tight. Suddenly, Robert's body felt cold and dirty, like the carcass he loved so much, not at all warm and comforting. _Not like Jaime's arms_, she found herself thinking as Robert shuddered a final time before collapsing atop her, suffocating her while she could do nothing about it. It was his right as her husband after all.

When he finally pulled his crushing weight away from her, she turned away on her side, sore all over but nothing hurt as much as her heart. The next night she crawled into bed with Jaime like she'd done as children, numb and wanting—_needing_—to feel _good, _needing to know she was wanted, beautiful, desirable. It was weak, the need for assurance like a child. Cersei shouldn't need it, she was beautiful, regal, strong hearted and a Lannister. But then again a husband _should_ want his wife, but Robert wanted a dead body.

She was dimly aware of the danger, but it added a bit of spice to their rushed thrusts. Cersei smiled when Jaime grunted _Cersei_ in pleasure as he spent his seed inside her. But her smile quickly fell from her lips and a feeling of emptiness engulfed her and not even her sweet golden brother's kisses could fill the void. Why couldn't her husband be like this? Why couldn't Robert kiss her like Jaime did, touch her, pleasure her, murmur promises of devotion to her as Jaime had ever since they were children? Lyanna Stark was dead, what could Robert possible want or grain by lusting after a dead woman? For one mad moment, she wished Jaime was her husband.

For a little while it was silent between her and Robert; that name hadn't been so much as whispered since their wedding night. Robert still visited her bed, but most oft was drunk on sour Dornish swill. Foolishly, Cersei began to hope that Robert was growing some kind of warmth in his heart for her. It was still unpleasant when he took her, but at least he didn't shout that girl's name again.

Then whispers came that he had taken a mistress. It was not unusual, kings took mistresses all the time, but Robert was cruel enough and had enough audacity that he made no attempt to hide his whores, even in public. It hurt, very much so, not only her pride, but her well guarded heart as well. It infuriated her and saddened her with angered her all the more.

Robert first hit her when she confronted him about the kitchen wench he pulled into his lap at Jon Arryn's tourney, in front of hundreds of lords and ladies' eyes with Cersei by his side as he buried his face in the plump woman's tits. Later she stormed to his chambers, stalking past Barristan Selmy outside the door. Angry lioness she was, her fury scared the half naked girls from her husband's bed with only a fiery look from her emerald eyes. Only when Robert's whores were gone did she finally speak.

"_How dare you!"_ she screeched at him later in his chambers. "Have you no shame?! No dignity! The lords laugh at me behind my back—!"

"Let them laugh." Her husband slurred, rising scantly clothed from his bed. He grabbed a horn and poured his wine. "You Lannister cunts are all the same: can't take any jest no matter how little; _they laugh at you behind your back_, you say?" he mocked. "Grow thicker skin, woman, words are nothing."

"Yes they are _nothing_; they call you _king_ but all I see is a drunken whoremonger wearing a crown!" She spat. There were so many other insults she wanted to sink into him, make him hurt after months of humiliation, but at once, Robert's hand was raised and struck her across the face. He showed no remorse, and neither did she. Later she looked into a mirror and stared at the bruise, committing it to memory as it coloured and turned an ugly purple. _A Lannister always pays her debts,_ she thought wrathfully.

When she went to her brother later in the night, he would draw his sword and march to the door, swearing to drive his sword through Robert's neck. Cersei was half tempted to let him, but quietened his sweet words with her mouth, hoping bringing Jaime pleasure with it would satisfy her wrath for Robert. _If he does it again,_ she thought deliriously as Jaime worked his mouth and hand dexterously between her legs,_ I'll be the one to kill him, Jaime._

When her belly began to swell and Maester Pycelle congratulated her, she let nothing betray what she felt. "Yes, it truly is a blessing from the Mother," was all she murmured, her voice calm and quiet. "Girl," she called to one of her handmaidens. Quickly the creature scurried over to Cersei, averting her eyes in respect or fear. Cersei hoped both.

The queen eyed the girl up and down warily. If Robert hadn't bedded her, he would soon, she thought. Suddenly she wanted pasty faced chit out of her sight. "Fetch my husband to me." She very nearly sent for Jaime, but refrained. She'd only shared Jaime's bed that once since she'd married Robert, months and months ago and the other times they'd been together they'd only used their mouths and hands on each other. She didn't want Jaime's seed to take root, couldn't risk it. This was Robert's child.

Cersei touched the small curve of her belly. Her green eyes lit up once more in hope that had begun to die. This would be Robert's heir, a strong black haired boy...he would love her for the strong son she would give him. She wouldn't only be his queen, she'd be his wife. Finally, her marriage would have worth, some warmth for their beds.

But still, a part of her whispered it should have been Jaime's child. He had never humiliated her by parading around with his whores in public. He had never given her bruises, or raised his hand to her. He had never said another woman's name while he was inside her, and he had never crushed her heart. But, young as she was, Cersei hoped.

Robert didn't strike her again, rarely raised his, and was discrete with his whores. She was never more hopeful than when he smiled after Maester Pycelle told her she was carrying twins. Everything was starting to fall as it should.

Nothing prepared her for the birthing bed: the blood, the pain, the people marching in and out with no regard for her dignity. She clawed the bedclothes with her nails as she pushed and panted, she screamed loud war cries every time a contraction hit her. She was a woman born, but she _knew_ she was stronger than any of them; what man could possible survive this pain? Not Robert, not her beautiful twin, not even her father. It hurt so terribly, she thought she might hate the children she birthed for causing her such pain, such indignity.

Relief like nothing she'd ever felt made her collapse back onto the pillows when they pulled the boy from her body, screaming and red. When they laid him on her chest Cersei stared at the snorting, whimpering infant in wonder. A little face, a little nose, little mouth, little ears, little eyes, ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes, a small tuft of black hair dusting his small soft head...Cersei never thought it was possible to love something _so_ much after only an instant—more than herself, even more than her twin.

She struggled when one of the midwives take him away. "Give him back!" she screeched, her voice raw and hoarse from the birth. But her struggles were stopped by the ripping pain that tore through her womb. The queen had been so enamoured with her first child, the little prince, she'd nearly forgotten she had another child to birth.

It was just as bloody, painful and messy as the first, only this time her work gave her a beautiful healthy baby girl with the same sweet, innocent features as her elder brother. Love, so strong and powerful it made her weep, bloomed in her heart, and she knew she would kill for her babies; she would burn the world to ash if it meant keeping them safe from harm.

Her children laid on her chest, Cersei felt complete for the first time without her brother at her side. Robert was out hunting and wouldn't be home for days, so it would be up to her to name them. As her children suckled from her breasts strongly, their little hands opening and closing against her chest, she cradled their heads and ran her thumbs across their soft hair. Maester Pycelle had gotten them confused, when he wrapped them up, calling her son the girl and her daughter the boy. Every lord who had come to see the little prince and princess couldn't tell them apart, but Cersei could.

Her son was a little bigger than her daughter; he liked looking around at the world when he lay in the cradle with his sister. He screamed loudly for her breast when he was hungry, and when she fed them, he seemed to like to push his sister away from her nipple. Her little prince was already demanding, already strong. _A __true__ lion_, she thought. Her little princess was quieter but sweeter than her brother. She had a steady stare to her, her attention didn't dart about like her twin's, weather it was her brother or her mother she was looking at. She was weaker than her brother, a lot less wriggly, but that was alright; her strength would grow. Her son the lion, her daughter the little doe.

"Steffon," the young queen whispered, looking at the right twin latched on her breast, eyes closed, one tiny hand closed around his sister's fist. "Sylvia." She whispered, looking to the left twin, stroking her wispy hair with her thumb.

As she lay with her children, Cersei was finally able to say she was happy. Robert would love her for these two beauties; he would realize pinning over a corpse was a waste and see his queen.

She was sure of it.

* * *

But her joy died on her tongue only four months after the birth.

They were twins, just like her and Jaime. Two small little bundles lying next to each other so peacefully, and even in their sleep, they twisted around so they faced each other, little arms resting across the others. When they woke, they didn't cry for their mother straight away. They had each other and would coo and babble to each other intently, grabbing at one another's clothes, biting each other's fingers. When one was away from the other they both cried and looked for their twin. When one baby awoke, the other was quick to follow. When one cried for Cersei's breast, the other cried as well. When one child was sleepy, the other either fell asleep with them, or was perfectly alright to lie beside their sleeping twin, wriggling and cooing contently. Their bond was beautiful; a twin herself, Cersei knew how strong they were, stronger than _any_ marriage, _any_ friendship...they shared a soul, two halves of the same whole.

Cersei had never felt happier than when they set one child and then the other down across her chest, screaming and red and wrinkled they were, and if they weren't hers, she might have thought them ugly...but they were _hers_...they were _hers_! Hers and Roberts. They had the finest black wisps at the crown of their soft heads, small little fingers and toes, the softest and warmest of skin, Cersei could spend whole hours just watching them and never grow bored.

And Robert began coming to her apartments more often now, and this filled her heart with joy. With the birth of their children, his son the future king and this little beauty a princess, it finally seemed as though her hopes that Robert Baratheon would love her were finally coming to life. He would come and watch them in their cradle, eyes filled with wonder, hold them both in his arms, laughing as they wriggled around and grabbed at his tunic. He smiled when they grabbed his hands and chewed on his fingers with their toothless mouths. Her heart warmed at seeing him smile with their children. Little did she realize Robert had bastard children he had the same interest in before Sylvia and Steffon, and that fascination had faded, as it always did with Robert.

Then, one of her little doves began to stop feeding from her breast. Her son, named in honor of Robert's father, grew pale, fever burning his delicate little skin, and he stopped feeding, no matter how she cried and begged. Cersei felt helpless, a feeling she had never felt before. Her son began to grow skinnier and skinnier, his skin like fire against hers.

Terror, mad and wild gripped her as her little love withered in her arms. Sylvia, laid in the cradle, screaming for attention as her mother held her twin. The queen refused to let _anyone_ touch her healthy baby, paranoid that if anyone were to touch her, they'd give her the same fever that was taking her son. It was only when Robert stormed into the tumultuous chamber and _ordered_ the wet-nurse to tend to the squalling, hungry, and soiled infant, that Sylvia calmed down some. Cersei glared at Robert through her reddened, watery eyes but was unable to argue as Maester Pycelle looked over her unusually still son.

For days Cersei held her son close, (her arms cramped but she didn't care), hoping, praying, every day and every night for the gods to give her children back to her. If one twin died, the next would surely follow. The gods would not be so cruel as to keep one half alive while taking the other...it'd be like taking an arm and leg.

Steffon fought, he held on days and days longer than the Maesters said he would. Cersei was so frightened she could not do anything but hold her baby and watch in anguish as the fever slowly took him.

Robert, for once in their marriage, stayed by her side as his boy languished, more for his children than his wife, but he stayed. Jaime guarded outside the chamber when all he wanted was to storm in the room and take Cersei in his arms and make all the pain go away. Cersei didn't care who was by her side at the moment, all she wanted was her boy to wriggle like he used to, scream for milk, push his sister. She wanted him _back_.

Her baby's life left her arms as she dosed against the top of the bed. Her boy lay in her arms, her daughter slept in her cradle and Robert had left hours before to do whatever depraved act he wanted. Her eye lids wouldn't stay open no matter how hard she tried. She was so exhausted she didn't realize Steffon was gone until the morning came.

The early waking hours of that day was a blur to Cersei. She remembered waking up, looking down, and thinking—hoping, praying—she was still dreaming. Her baby was pale, still, gone...and a part of her died the moment she realized it. Her face crumbled, her heart crushed inside her, a strangled sob tore from her throat as she threw her head back in pure agony. She screamed louder than she'd ever screamed before, louder than when her children were birthed, louder than when the Maesters told her that her son would not survive.

It would later be said her scream of grief was heard throughout the castle, they would say Robert, Jaime, Pycelle and many others rushed into the room as Cersei clutched her son sobbing as Sylvia screamed with her from her cradle. She screamed and battled as they took the dead child from her arms, clawed at the arms holding her back as she tried to grab her lost baby back again. Robert beat his hands bloody against the stone walls and then grabbed her when she leapt at one of the Silent Sisters who was taking the body to be prepared.

She remembered that Robert held her as she cried, as she fought and cried "please" over and over again. She later thinks it was because he was hurting as well; he had lost his child too. He didn't love her, and she didn't love him, but they had loved their son. She would think that this was the thing that killed her marriage. The loss of their boy took something from both of them because it was their child together; it was what had bound them together in that marriage. The septon may have joined them together by the gods, but their twins had sealed it.

Now...one was gone, and part of them both of them had died with him. The blame would come later; the hatred and bitterness would grow and fester as they sought comfort out elsewhere, Robert with his wine and whores, Cersei with her brother. But for now, all they were were two people who had lost their child, each grieving for the loss.

Cersei was not able to look at her remaining baby for days and days after Steffon died. At first, she felt thankful and numb, thankful that she had her healthy daughter left, but that was all. Then she ordered the wet-nurse to leave for the night to see to Sylvia by herself. It would be odd, she knew and most likely painful. Cersei had never had Sylvia without Steffon, but now that's all she would ever have, just Sylvia, an eternal reminder of the child she's lost, a blessing and a curse.

It was cruel of the gods to leave Sylvia with her. One twin should not live without the other. She will be incomplete all her life, Cersei thought as she stared at the cradle from her bed, firelight flickering across the gossamer veils. She'll never feel truly happy without her brother; she will always have the pain of the loss in her soul, even if she doesn't realize what it's from. Cersei couldn't imagine living in a world where Jaime was not, it was too painful to think of. They came into this world together; they would not dare leave the world without the other.

Cersei stood from her bed and walked to the cradle, and looked down to the little black haired child she loved and grieved for. Sylvia was peaceful, but her legs kicked in her sleep, her face turned to her side. She always did that, it was what she and Steffon had done; they faced each other when they slept so when they awoke they knew they were safe. She would never feel safe when she awoke again.

Carefully reaching a hand out she pinched the blue blanket covering her daughter's restless legs, still too afraid to touch her baby. _It's a mercy_, something mad whispered in her ear._ One twin cannot live without the other. _

She did not realize she had lifted the blanket until she laid it over Sylvia's face. Cersei froze in horror at what she was doing, shame and fear and dread and pain—oh gods the _pain_—striking her chest. Her legs grew weak and she collapsed on her knees beside Sylvia's cradle. The emotions swelling in her were so powerful, so consuming she doubled over with its strength, her forehead coming to rest against the cold stone floor. She felt like she was going mad. The young queen was ready to scream and tears gathered in her eyes when she heard a strange sound she realized she had not heard in a long time: her baby's coo.

A sniffle left her and she took uneven breaths to keep from breaking into sobs, and Cersei slowly stood up as Sylvia's disoriented coo grew into a panicked whimper. Looking down into the cradle at the wriggling infant beneath the blanket, Cersei pulled the fabric away and looked at her baby, feeling so ashamed and heartbroken.

She loved her, so, _so_ much. Carefully, fearing she'd drop her, Cersei lifted Sylvia into her arms and sniffled as the baby settled quietly against her mother's bosom. Sylvia loved her as well. But gods forgive her, Cersei couldn't look at her daughter without the pain coming back again, without thinking why did the gods take the boy and leave me with the girl? She hated herself for thinking such things when she loved Sylvia so much.

Tears dripped down Cersei's face as she sat back against the pillows on her bed. Sylvia nuzzled against the silk fabric of her shift, looking for milk and made a small whimpery sound. Mechanically, feeling strange that she could do it by herself now that one hand was free, Cersei pulled down her shift, exposing her breast. She cradled her daughter's head in one hand while she held her breast in the other. Instinctively, Sylvia opened her small, pouty mouth wide and began to feed.

Cersei smiled for the first time in weeks as she watched her baby feed, but it was a sad smile. This would be the last time she would feed her daughter herself. Her heart hurt too much, and she was afraid of herself, of what she may do if she was left alone with Sylvia again. Cersei could already feel bitterness and anger form in her heart where her son once occupied. That bitterness was too close to her daughter, and Cersei _had_ to protect Sylvia from whatever animosity she would form towards her remaining child.

But Cersei wept as she held Sylvia, for everything that had happened, everything that would happen, all she'd lost and the one she will lose.

* * *

It wasn't two months later that she caught Robert fucking one of her handmaidens against a wall close to her chambers. Anger and hurt struck her. How dare he?! Their son had died only two moons past and there he was making another child with some fat toothless whore? When she went to Jaime, she didn't need to use her words. The next morning, the handmaid's body washed up along the shore. That same night she and Jaime fucked for the first time in a year. And it was _good_.

For a long time afterwards, Cersei went nightly to her brother, mounting him and riding him like a stallion, wanting him to make her feel something other than pain and despair, other than the crushing grief and sadness she felt everyday looking at her remaining baby, Sylvia. She longed to have her daughter close to her, but she just couldn't...the pain was too raw yet.

She made Jaime finish on her thigh or belly because she wasn't ready to bring another baby into the world, it was too soon after she lost one. Jaime didn't care; he obeyed her wishes as he always did. Robert came to her bed drunker and drunker as the months rolled by, so delirious that he didn't remember if he finished in her or on her face or in her hands. He bellowed about needing heirs one night before he struck her and sent her sprawling to the floor.

"You have one," she said. "Sylvia."

"A girl cannot rule an entire kingdom!" Robert shouted drunkenly. Cersei knew this, but wasn't one of his children enough, even if she was a girl? Couldn't he raise her to run a kingdom (although she knew it was Jon Arryn, the Hand who managed the kingdom)? She wouldn't be able to fight in battle, but she could rule in the council room.

It was when Robert talked to his council about bringing Edric Storm to court and legitimizing him as his heir that Cersei's ambition reawakened in her heart. A bastard of Robert's _would. Not. Rule!_ A Lannister bastard was worth a hundred thousand for every one of Robert's bastards.

_Her_ children would still rule. Not Robert's. She'd rob him of that. That night she clutched Jaime's hips as he drew closer and closer to climax and smirked at his delighted face when she wrapped her legs around him to keep him from withdrawing.

Her belly grew once more, though not as large as it had before when she carried twins. Cersei felt nothing but satisfaction through her whole pregnancy that she had bested Robert. She felt no particular affection for the babe itself. Sylvia, now just over a year old, still had a part of her heart that had not frozen over. She was Robert's child however, black hair, blue eyes, none of his features, yet she looked like him. Cersei was coming to hate Robert, but yet...part of her still felt something for him, stupid as it was.

When Joffrey was born, the birthing bed was just as she remembered unfortunately, only this time Jaime was with her, holding her hand. With the twins he'd remained outside, angry she was birthing Robert's children. Jaime never cared for either child, but held her as she wept for them.

When they set the screaming infant in her arms warmth spread inside her for the first time in nearly a year and the painful love she felt for her daughter was now pushed back to make room for this lion cub in her arms. Her son screamed, as if knowing their words were _Hear me Roar_. This was her future king, golden and beautiful, a Lannister through and through.

Her daughter, while she loved her—painful as it was—was a stag. Stags and lions do not mix, she realized as she thought of her husband. Lions devour stags, but now, a stag rules a lion. That must never ever be...when Joffrey was king he would be a lion and rule the all the beasts in the forests, all the flyers in the sky, all the creatures of the sea. Everyone will _bow_ to the Lion.

Robert didn't care for the boy, not like he cared for Sylvia. He favoured the little dark haired child, saw her more often than Joffrey, gave her more toys, smiled at her...Joffrey got none of that, not that the boy seemed to care very much. Whenever Robert tired to hold the baby, Joff would screw his face up in disgust and let out a helpless scream of fury. Robert soon lost interest in the child that had no interest in him and focused more on the daughter that liked following him like a puppy.

And so Cersei's first daughter was pushed behind Joffrey, the golden sun outshining the pale moon. While Robert favored his black haired doe, Cersei favoured her blonde haired cub. Danger increased as Jaime got two more children on her, but Cersei had no care. Sylvia was Robert's child everyone knew it; Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella simply favoured their mother. But people began rumours that Sylvia was Robert's bastard from another woman.

This infuriated Cersei. She may not know her daughter well but she _loved _her as much as she loved Jaime's children. The fact that Sylvia's father was a drunken bastard who spent his time humiliating and hurting his wife spoiled a bit of that love, however. Whatever she exactly felt for her eldest was a mystery: she did not hate her entirely, nor did she love her as much as she once did, she pitied her and yet feared her slightly for what her existence may bring. She loved Sylvia enough to fight when Robert suggested she marry a Martell or one of those Tyrell snakes. She laughed in his face when he even said the name Frey and called him a bastard when he suggested a Greyjoy. Every protest gave her bruises, but she did not care. Her daughter would not suffer as she did.

Despite the love she had for her eldest, Cersei kept a careful distance, never remaining long enough to get hurt. Lions and stags do not mix and damn it, it still hurt looking at the girl and remembering the small, black haired boy she'd come into the world with.

* * *

**so...tada... please be gentle. That's all I ask, be gentle. **

**I know Cersei may seem...OOC (_) in here, but I'm thinking of how she became that ambitious bitch we absolutely love. I'm using Cersei from the TV series 95% of the way so she did have a child with Robert and did have hopes that maybe they could make it work.**


	2. Prologue II

HEY! Oh my GOD I am so impressed with the feedback! THank you thank you thank you thank you so so much! You're great feedback really fed the monster that is this chapter :)

:D

* * *

**Prologue II**

_Life goes on, it gets so heavy__  
The wheel breaks the butterfly__  
Every tear a waterfall__  
In the night the stormy night she'll close her eyes__  
In the night the stormy night away she'd fly_

As a young child, Sylvia filled her loneliness by carrying out long conversations with her invisible friend, Stuffy. She couldn't remember a time when she _hadn't_ been with him. He was funny, they'd play hide and seek all throughout the castle; he was a great hider, she'd never be able to find him until she had to leave for lessons, then he'd jump out boast he was the greatest hider to ever wander the castle halls.

Sylvia liked playing with Stuffy, he was her best friend. When her mother was away and Septa Bryda was snoring in her chair, Stuffy always had a new game to play, like Catch the Dragon, or One, Two, Three, Knock on Wood or Ten Little Knights. Sometimes he'd let her win, sometimes he just smirked while she pouted at his victory.

She talked to him at night, turned over on her side, small hand scratching at the cool satin sheets, whispering into the dark to her friend.

"Mother says I'm to have a new brother or sister," she whispered into the room, dark but for the candles flickering by her bed, threatening, always threatening, to gutter out. Sylvia paused as Stuffy answered. "I know I hope this one isn't like stupid Joffy." Joffrey, her younger brother, was a _terrible_ playmate. He cried when he didn't get his way, when she or Stuffy bested him at games or teased him or said no to him. When she talked to Stuffy, Joffy laughed at her or called her a stupid girl or even ordered his hound, Sandor Clegane, to knock some sense into his halfwit sister. The Hound never did, she was his princess after all, and _her_ sworn shield, Ser Fredrik Ravenback, would have fought back if the large monstrous man raised a hand to her.

Joffrey had a cruel streak too. He liked to kick her little dog, Spots—(Sylvia had wanted to name him Meraxes, after Rhaenys Targaryen's dragon, but father bellowed out curses to her and would have hit her for even _mentioning_ the Targaryen name, had her mother not stopped him and taken the hit for her). Joffery's emerald eyes _gleamed_ when he threw his tantrums, as if enjoying the shocked look on her face, enjoying her tears when he called her such cruel, dirty names no matter how many times she ordered him to stop. He threw her dolls against the walls, insulted Stuffy and hit her with his small, but hurtful, fists and there was nothing Ser Fredrik could do about _that_.

Once, when Joffy, Sylvia and Stuffy were having a pretend royal tea party with iced honey milk, savoury meat pie with flaky crust, lemon cakes and sweet fruit tarts between them, Joffy tried to take the lemon cake she set before Stuffy.

"No, Joffy! You can't eat that! That's Stuffy's!" she yelled at her small brother. His golden curls brushed against his shoulders, his chubby little hands clutched the lemon cake tightly, and the lovely green eyes that mirrored their mother's, narrowed in defiance and outrage. Joffy couldn't see it, but Stuffy was glaring at her little brother as well.

"You're so stupid! You and your pretend friend _can't tell me what to do!_ I'm going to be _king_ and when I'm king I'll cut off your toes for even mentioning it!" The five year old hissed out. They glared at one another for a moment when Sylvia reached over the table, quick as a snake, and tried to grab the cake from Joffrey, her long black hair falling over her shoulder and dipping into the pitcher of sticky honey milk. "Let go! Let go! Let _GO_!" the golden haired child screeched. His onyx haired sister didn't listen and they continued to fight over the lemon cake. Finally, Joffrey's smaller fingers couldn't hold on any longer and let go, so abruptly that Sylvia lost her footing and fell back.

Landing painfully on her back, the cake flying out of her hand and splattering all over the stone floors, Sylvia was dazed a moment when Joffrey yelled again.

"_I'm telling mother!" _as was his custom, Joffrey ran out of the apartment in search of her. Sylvia bit her lip, afraid what this would bring. Mother _always_ took Joffy's side on things like this. From the cradle, she'd taught the boy he was to be a king, and kings can make or break any law they wish, the truth was what the king said it was and that he lies in a bed with his enemies, snuffing them out when they grow too bold. Watching father do as he pleased with no care of what anyone else thought or what embarrassment he may inflict upon his wife, agreed with mother's lessons. It was only when Joffrey went _too far_ with his taunts—calling her halfwit in front of hundreds of eyes, or hitting her, or bringing up Stuffy in the middle of Court—that Cersei ever stopped it, taking Sylvia away from her nasty brother as if _she_ was the one being insolent and later telling Joffrey that even kings should not shame their family in public, for it was a shame to him as well.

Mother would leave Joffrey with a septa after those soft words, and take her away to have a lemon cake or walk outside in the gardens under the warm sun or brush and braid her hair; her hands, always gentle, made Sylvia forget being upset at Joffrey. That was Sylvia's favourite time with her mother, the times when it was just the two of them: no Joffrey, no Uncle Jaime, no father...just the two of them. Those quiet, happy times with her mother felt too few, because Joffrey always had more command over her attentions than her and being queen always summoned Cersei away for whatever reason.

Mother always seemed to be more like to believe Joffrey than her, the story of what truly happened would be twisted and stretched into a pale image of what _had_ happened. Sylvia didn't understand; because Joffy would be king one day, he was always right? Because he was a boy? Because he was younger? Why was mother always siding with him, always spending more time with him, always talking to him with sweet praise? But, being young and innocent as she was, and because she did not know she had lost her twin in the cradle, Sylvia did not see that when Cersei looked at her children, she saw Joffrey and thought of Jaime, and when she looked at Sylvia she thought of the boy she'd lost. Because this is how it had always been, Sylvia was usually not bothered by it for very long; Stuffy always cheered her spirits and made her smile, and there was her Septa Bryda who would tell her stories about animals that wanted to be knight or gentle queens who fell in love with brave kings from far off exotic places.

"No Stuffy, we can't." Sylvia admonished, giggling when he suggested they take the new baby and put it in a basket and lease it into Blackwater Bay for fishers or mermaids to keep, if it turned out like Joffy. "I don't know...maybe we can put _Joffy_ in a basket and put him out to sea and keep the new baby and teach it to be good and how to skip stones and how to sneak past the guards and find the skulls." She paused. "No dummy, all the dragons are gone, father always says so." Her conversation with her invisible friend continued for another hour before Sylvia's eyelids began to fall. "I wish _you_ were my brother," the little princess whispered into the darkness before falling asleep, dreaming of a happier place that she would forget once she awoke.

Her mother was huge with child when Joffrey..._hurt_ the kitchen cat. She'd been walking through the halls with Ser Fredrik, on her way back from her high harp lessons, when she heard her mother screaming.

"Joffrey! Oh, oh my poor, poor son, my poor little prince," she heard Cersei cry, her voice laced with nothing but fear and sadness for finding Joffy in whatever state he was in. Sylvia and Ser Fredrik froze where they stood, Sylvia's crystal blue eyes widening in fear. What had happened to Joffy? Was he alright? Was her mother alright? Her thoughts raced and Ser Fredrik took her hand and rushed her past the door where she'd heard her mother.

"Best come along, princess." He advised as he tugged her hand away.

"No, I want to hear." She hissed, pulling her hand from her calloused one. A loud slapping sound echoed through the halls and the knight swore under his breath.

"_You bastard! How _dare_ you touch my son! I'll gut you from—!"_

"You'll not want to hear this," Ser Ravenback said gravely, knowing, at least vaguely, that whatever harm had been done to the prince, Robert Baratheon most like had a hand in it. No one else would _dare_ touch the boy, fearing his mother's untameable wrath. He knew mothers had a tendency to go a little mad where their children were concerned, but he had no doubt Cersei Lannister would kill for her children. She'd get away with it too. Ser Ravenback looked back down at his young charge, knowing the small, strange child should not hear the violence to come between her parents.

"Yes!" The girl screamed insistently, stomping her small foot beneath her yellow little lady's gown.

"No, come along." He grunted, pulling once again on her little arm. Sylvia glared at him beneath her dark lashes, as if her scathing look could sway the seasoned warrior. Suddenly, he hauled her up in his arms and walked away down the corridor, hoping that his footsteps would ensure the child did not hear the shouts behind them.

Unfortunately, the maids see the dark bruise under young Joffrey's eye and see that his two front baby teeth are gone, and whisper to one another. The kitchen hands see the cat is missing and then find its gutted body, and whisper to the maids. The maester who attended the boy and gave him milk of the poppy to help the pain, hears Cersei speaking angrily to her twin brother in the next room. She says Joffrey was only curious and doesn't know why Robert was so horrified since he brings back gutted carcasses whenever he goes hunting. The maester whispers to the whore that visits him later in the night, and the whore whispers to the cook who pays for her the next night and soon the truth of the shouts from that day reach Sylvia.

Ser Ravenback knows he failed when the girl asks him to take Spots, her little mutt away, a scared look in her eye. He knows he failed when she didn't speak to Joffrey for days and barely met his eye for weeks after he killed and eviscerated the cat, not out of fear mind you, but too disturbed to go back to the way things once were between them. He knows he failed when she doesn't call her brother 'Joffy' ever again.

* * *

When Myrcella was born, talk of betrothals once again arose at the Small Council's table.

Sylvia was growing into a pretty little lady, and in a few years time she'd be ripe for marriage. The Martell's would be a wise choice, seal their loyalty with a marriage bed and bloody sheets. But the idea of sending his favorite to Dorne, to be ward of the House that hated them above everything evil and cruel in the world, was not an idea that sat easy with Robert. He barely saw the girl and his interest in her had waned as the years passed, but he did still care a good deal for her and didn't want her to suffer in whatever marriage he arranged.

The Tyrell's were too ambitious and Robert found delight in destroying their hopes that their house would ever marry into the crown. He laughed at their anger, delighted as they stewed in their rage, unable to protest the king's choice.

Mayhaps Jon Arryn's son when it's birthed from the Tully girl's belly? Robert loved Jon Arryn more than his own dead father, and a marriage between his daughter and his potential son would bind their houses together. His daughter would be Lady of the Eyrie one day, mistress of an impenetrable castle, married into one of the most honourable houses in the realm. But it was common knowledge the younger Tully girl had a weak womb, miscarriages and stillbirths were all she had begotten Jon Arryn and no one knew if this child would make it to term. Sylvia couldn't be kept waiting for a son that may take years to birth.

Cersei wanted a Lannister for their eldest, but Robert refused with an angry growl; he surrounded by too many fair haired Lannister shits already. He hated the entire emerald eyed lot of them and their arrogance was not something he'd condemn Sylvia to; her mother, uncle, cousins and grandfather were enough. Perhaps the girl Cersei birthed the month before, but not Sylvia... not his daughter. Greyjoy had once been an option, but after that bloody spat which had left all the salty runts of Balon Greyjoy dead but for the youngest, Robert and Cersei finally agreed that a marriage between Sylvia and Theon would be mad.

Any other house would not match up to Sylvia's status; all the other houses were too _small_, too _poor_ and too _greedy_ for a princess.

And then there was the north and that tasted sweet as wine on Robert's tongue. Immediately, he thought of Ned and his boy—Robb they named him, in honour of Robert—was only about a year older than his daughter. A smile came to Robert's lips as he took another long swig from his cup. Ned was the best man he knew, honourable, steadfast, knew exactly what he was and had no illusions. If his son was anything like Ned, Sylvia would be well cared for and never misused. He could see Sylvia happy in this match, sweet child she was, not like her mother or her father.

Binding a Stark to a Baratheon...it was always meant to be, until Lyanna was stolen from him. Robert looked down at his cup and felt the burn—still so fresh after six, nearly seven years—begin to flame up inside him. Sylvia and this Robb Stark would not fail where he had. Robert didn't care if it was selfish ambition or if Cersei or his daughter protested. Stark and Baratheon _would_ still be bound by blood.

The next morning Jon Arryn walked down one of the red stone castle halls, talking with wise old Maester Pycelle about this match Robert had decided upon, the match Ned Stark didn't even know about and therefore may refuse.

"I doubt the princess will suit the north," said Jon Arryn. "It's too cold, too harsh for a soft hearted southern princess." It was common knowledge about the castle that Sylvia talked to herself, this fictitious apparition she called by name and played with and talked to. Her wits worried Jon Arryn. He had never known a child to talk at nothing and act as though her playmate was real. Perhaps it was some deformity of the mind developed before birth? Perhaps her brother had been the sane one. He feared the Starks would see Sylvia as a lame horse they'd been sold and take it as an insult. He worried for what this child may endure in the harsh, cold lands of the north, from children that did not know her, and did not know how kind and sweet she could be.

Pycelle nodded his fuzzy head. "Oh," he murmured, his voice tired as it always was. "Yes, yes, my Lord. But I think with the change, the girl may finally relinquish this apparition of hers and play with real children."

"Yes, there are few children within the castle walls for the princess to play with," Jon Arryn agreed. Sylvia had Joffrey, but she _hated_ the boy with his bullying and for the most part he got away with the way he treated his sister as Robert would be too drunk and Cersei favoured her son above her other children. Robb Stark was a child too—Ned's son—but still a boy, still learning, still foolish. If Sylvia was to travel north and mention that silly apparition to him, Jon knew nothing good would become of it. "But a few playmates are more acceptable than none."

"Mmm. My lord, if I may inquire, is his highness aware of his daughter's...wild imagination?" Pycelle asked.

"Even if Robert knew how far it went, he wouldn't care. He wants a Stark and a Baratheon married, and he will get it, with either these two children or children born in the future." Jon replied regretfully. If Robert listened to him on this, he would wait a few years, break the princess of her odd imaginings and then proposition a marriage between her and Robb Stark. But tell Robert Baratheon he couldn't, shouldn't or mustn't, he would do it to spite you. Robert was dead-set on this betrothal, no matter what Ned said.

As the two older men walked, a handmaiden passed them by, one of Cersei's spies. By the afternoon, the queen had gotten hold of this new information and was furious at the idea they would send her eldest child away to some stranger in a cold waste of land.

"I thought you hated the girl." Jaime said snidely from Cersei's bed. He watched his beloved sister pace; one hand rested on the pommel of his sword, as he wondered why she worried so much over Robert's child. He knew she _hated_ every one of Robert's bastards and Robert himself most of all, so why did she worry so much over her inky haired daughter? Jaime didn't much care for his children, his heart only truly belonged to Cersei, and it _burned_ him to know that Robert's daughter—a part of Robert—had a portion of her heart that was inaccessible to him. Jaime felt that piece of Cersei was stolen from him, by the daughter of a drunken fool.

Many times he tired to remind himself she was half Cersei as well, he could see it in the child's fine features, but everything about the little girl irritated him for reasons he knew were foolish. He didn't want to hate her, for Cersei's sake, but he also wished she would hate the girl as well, to know the hurt she cut him with to have and love a child of Robert Baratheon's.

"You know I don't." The queen snapped, never stopping her pacing. "If I hated her, she would have died beside her brother." Cersei pushed away the stab of pain thinking of Steffon gave her, focusing more on her anger, at Robert for selling Sylvia like a whore, and at Jaime for saying nothing useful or comforting to her. Cersei stopped and turned to her brother, hating how much she wanted him even now as he simply sat at the end of her bed, beautiful and golden. "_You_, best of all, know I do not hate Sylvia anymore than I hate Joffrey or Myrcella."

"But you do not care for her enough to reign in Joffrey when he makes her cry." He saw Cersei flinch at that and bit his tongue in regret as she turned away from him. He had half a mind to take her into his arms and kiss her and touch her until she stopped worrying over the onyx haired child.

"Joff will be king," Jaime said as he stood. "He is ours, he looks like us. Sylvia is Robert's, she looks like _him_." He continued softly, slowly walking behind her Jaime took hold of her soft hips. "People will talk, they'll whisper, wonder why Sylvia and Robert's bastards look exactly like him and why Joffrey and Myrcella have golden hair and emeralds for eyes." He whispered into her ear. "Send the girl north, the whispers will quieten with no one to compare Joffrey and Myrcella to." Cersei tensed as Jaime began to bunch up her dress and pull upwards, but remained frozen as he whispered his silky words into her ear. "Our children will be safer when she is gone and married." At that, Cersei wretched away from Jaime, glaring at him fiercely.

"You think _I care_ what people whisper?" she spat. "You think I believe _you_ care what they say? No one would dare speak such things openly; Joffrey and Myrcella are as much Baratheon as Sylvia."

Jaime bristled. "Well in that case you should marry Sylvia and Myrcella both off as _quickly_ as you can. If they're as much like Robert as you claim, they'll have their legs spread open with half a hundred men between them by the time they're twelve with as many bastards in their bellies."

Cersei scowled at her twin for a second, and then she raised her hand and struck him across the face as hard as she could. Jaime only smirked, her slap having no affect on him.

"Why did I even call you here?" she hissed at him.

"Because, my sweet sister, you want me to do something to stop Robert from selling your daughter to Eddard Stark."

"And now I see how useless that was." Cersei snapped before storming from the room, her silk skirts swaying behind her.

Within the month, ravens had been sent to Ned all the way in the north, and before any had been received back yet, Robert had announced to the entire Court that Sylvia Baratheon and Robb Stark would be wed the year after she first began to bleed.

* * *

_Four and a half years later_

Sylvia slouched in her chair as Bryda brushed her hair, not paying attention to the old woman's humming. When she was six, when father told her she'd be fostered at eleven by Ned Stark, his best friend, four years seemed a lifetime to her. Now at eleven, it seemed all too soon.

Mother was with child again, and it seemed that she wouldn't meet her brother or sister for a few years. The thought made her very sad. Despite her and Stuffy's fears, Myrcella grew into a sweet, kind girl, incapable of guile or the cruelty that came to Joffrey so easily. Sylvia loved to play with her sister, loved her pretty blonde hair and sweet trusting smile. From the moment she saw the little thing, sleeping soundly in her cradle, mother watching carefully from her bed, tired looking and in her nightclothes, Sylvia decided she couldn't let Joffrey hurt her like he had the cat. Myrcella was so small and innocent, and Sylvia loved her from that day, and would until her last.

She worried, now for her sister, and the new baby coming, what Joffrey may do. She didn't trust her brother. At times he was like a snake: calm, luring you in under a false notion of gentleness. Other times he was as clumsy as a lion: moving too quickly, acting too brashly, too harshly, shocking you at the suddenness of his pounce. He had grown quite a bit, the malice of his childhood nature had calmed a bit, mother had taught him a king must be patient, save your strength, wait to strike at the proper time—still, whenever he looked at things, whenever he looked at _her_, she could see that same disturbing gleam in his eye.

Septa Bryda began to split her hair into three sections, preparing to braid her hair like she had done for years, but Sylvia paid her favorite septa no mind. Mother had many loyal knights around her, as did Joffrey, as did Myrcella. And Joffrey had become tamer with his taunts to Sylvia and never jeered at Myrcella as badly as he did with Sylvia. Although she tried to assure herself Myrcella's sweet nature would remain untainted by Joffrey's poison, she still feared. She could _never_ tell her mother of her fears, to insult Joffrey was to insult Cersei.

"Don't worry, child. You'll carry your family with you in your heart when you go." Septa Bryda murmured gently as she braided the princess' soft hair. Truly, Septa Bryda was more than a governess to Sylvia, she loved her. For nearly every time Joffrey had made her weep, septa Bryda had been the one to wipe away her tears, she became the one she went to whenever something exciting happened in her young life, and septa Bryda _never_ turned her away when she was too busy. She would miss her terribly when she left.

Despite the love she felt for her septa, Sylvia felt like being rude. "Except I _won't,_ will I?" Sylvia grumbled back shortly. "They'll be _here_ and I'll be all the way up north, alone and cold. Mother says it's just a cold waste there."

Septa Bryda chuckled. "Oh, my little dear, you're mother is just trying to frighten any joy out of you for going, because she doesn't want you to go."

"That doesn't make _sense!"_ The child bit back.

"Motherhood never does." It was quiet a moment, but for the soft cries of the gulls outside in the harbour. "At least you can bring your 'friend' with you." The septa offered carefully.

Sylvia looked down. Stuffy was still her greatest friend, although as she got older and she became more aware of the views of people, she talked to Stuffy less and less. Jon Arryn said children weren't supposed to have imaginary playmates, to stop pretending and to _never_ mention it in front of the Starks. She hated the old man then, with his bushy white eyebrows and rank breath. He sounded _just like Joffrey_, always telling her _normal_ people aren't daft enough to have a friend like Stuffy. But what was wrong with Stuffy? She liked him and that's all there was to it!

Yet later at a feast, she remained quiet, looking down at the platter of food before her and nowhere else. For the first time she was aware of the eyes on her and wondered what they saw. A mad little girl? A lonely princess? Someone to pity, someone to mock in secret? Afterward, in their private apartments with her mother, Sylvia asked for the first time if Cersei thought she was mad.

Cersei knew of the invisible friend her daughter played with, but knew it to be a silly childhood game that called for no real worry. She'd forget in time, she thought, she's just a child after all. This question Sylvia posed to her mother was one long awaited. When Sylvia finally began to notice that other children had flesh and blood companions, she'd begin to let go of this apparition of hers. Myrcella would be a suitable companion.

"My love, you are a Lannister and a princess," said Cersei. Even though Cersei knew full well her daughter was a Baratheon, she resented admitting it. "You are too good for imaginary friends. There are many other things for you to play with, including your sister."

"But I already do—"

"Hush! I _will not_ have you be made a mockery of; we are _lions_ and we do not concern ourselves with the opinions of _sheep_, but neither will we endure their ridicule." Sylvia looked down, biting her lip. Her mother sighed and tipped her child's head up and gave her a soft, tight smile. "No my sweet, you are not mad, but do not hold onto this _thing_ of yours forever. You'll be a woman soon, and women put away childish things." Sylvia nodded in understanding, and that night, ignored Stuffy when he tried to talk to her.

She had been eight then, and now she was eleven, being made ready to be shipped away in the crate that was a wheelhouse off north. She found as time went by, Stuffy's visits became fewer and fewer, but this made her sad. Sylvia wanted to play with him, talk to him like she used to, wake up and know he was there so they could keep each other safe from scary things that lived in the dark...but at the same time..._she couldn't_. She talked to him every now and then like she used to, more often now as the day for her departure grew closer, but it there was a divide between them now, a divide that didn't feel natural.

Suddenly, the door opened, making both the old septa and the young princess turn to look who had come.

Cersei stood in the wake of the doorway, she wore a green gown that complimented her emerald eyes, a gorgeous jewelled belt encircling just below her breasts, making her swelling stomach all the more noticeable. She eyed the septa cryptically. Cersei never cared for the old crone; _her_ daughter was far too close for her liking. Cersei had always been a jealous woman; she _did not_ share, and having her daughter attached to this old hag as she was stung her. She had half a mind to ask Jaime to be rid of her as he had Robert's whores, but Sylvia would ask questions and would most likely cry for her and that would be worse still.

"Leave us." Cersei ordered curtly. Curtsying as deeply as she could, septa Bryda left without another word or a second glance.

Cersei and Sylvia looked at one another a moment, Sylvia in her chair, drumming her little fingers on the wood of the arm rests, Cersei standing by the door, hands clasped in front of her. Cersei knew her daughter didn't want to leave, but it couldn't be helped, not now at least. For the past six months as Sylvia's departure grew closer as the days passed by, Cersei dreamed of killing Robert and ascending her son to the throne and having him make the arrangement void under his decree. Yet all the while, Jaime's words from long ago whispered in the back of her mind. _Our children will be safer when she is gone and married. _

The queen felt as if she was being torn two different ways, between her love for her golden children, and her love for her black haired daughter. She thought and thought until she began to see Jaime was right, even though she knew he only said what he did out of spite for the girl. Their children _would_ be safer if their black haired sister was gone, when there was nothing to compare them to...it would hurt to lose her daughter to strangers, the other half of her sweet Steffon, the one bit of him—the one bit of _Cersei's_ dead hopes and dreams—taken away from her. But losing Joffrey, Myrcella, this new child in her belly, Jaime, her power and then her head would _destroy_ her in one crashing, painful blow and she would not let that happen. Even if it meant sacrificing one child to a marriage she did not want.

"Here," Cersei murmured, stepping behind Sylvia and taking over the task the septa had left half finished. Sylvia always had such pretty hair, she thought as she twisted and weaved the black ink of her daughter's long hair. Gently braiding her eldest's hair, Cersei let out a sad sigh. She loved her daughter, she knew that deep in her heart, but she _had_ to let her go—not for any benefit of Sylvia's, but for Cersei's.

"I'm sending Ser Ravenback with you, north; he'll keep you safe where I cannot." The queen told her. Sylvia was happy at that; at least she would know _one_ face. "Don't expect much from this boy," Cersei said without enthusiasm. She had vowed no daughter of hers would suffer the same fate she had, but her blasted sex made her weak in this world where men's cocks decided everything. "If you do, you'll be disappointed. If you love him, love him carefully. Men are like snakes, my sweet. You can love them for years, do everything you can to make them happy, but still...they can turn on you in an instant and I cannot protect you from that." She finished her work, bound the end of Sylvia's hair tightly with string, and turned her child's head to face her. "I do not say this to scare you, my love. But that is how the world is sometimes." Cersei said looking into her daughter's blue eyes, the eyes her black haired twin had shared. Cersei pulled away, as she always did when she remembered Steffon.

"Come," Sylvia jumped off the chair, walking with her head held high beside her fierce mother, hoping she looked braver than she felt.

"Will I visit?" Sylvia asked as they walked down the stairs to the front gates of the city where her wheelhouse, filled with her belongings, a septa and Ser Fredrik, were waiting. The child's voice betrayed her, breaking as her fears and sadness swelled like an ocean's wave inside her.

Cersei looked back at Sylvia, clenching her jaw when she saw her daughter's eyes well. "Don't cry. Tears are the weakness of your heart made bare. Bad people, wicked people, will use your weakness against you." Cersei truly didn't want to frighten the child, but she was leaving her and going to some strange place where there could be danger and malice every way she turned. Sylvia had to be ready for it; the time for childish naivety was coming to an end.

The girl sniffled, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her dress, hoping mother wouldn't object to that. "Yes, you will visit," Cersei said with a sigh as she began walking down the stairs. "Many high born girls flower when they're thirteen; when you flower, we will come north to see you be made a wife." She sneered as if the notion tasted foul in her mouth. Doubtfully, Cersei wondered if giving the girl up, letting her leave, would take the ghosts of her painful past with her, and finally let her get a peaceful nights sleep without awaking from too sweet dreams of her lost son, and the life she wished she had.

Sylvia said nothing, but silently counted the years until she was thirteen, as she and Cersei continued their way down the stone steps.

* * *

Princess Sylvia Baratheon looked through the pale yellow gossamer curtains as the wheelhouse slowly shook its way down the kingsroad. Her septa, a stern looking woman in a plain yellow dress, quietly sewed something across from her. Her guard, Ser Fredrik, road outside with a dozen others, enjoying the scenery outright while she watched through a veiled window. In a month's time she would be gone from the beautiful warmth of the south, and thrust into the desolate cold of the north. Her heart broke as she watched the Red Keep grow smaller and smaller behind them, feeling as though she left a part of herself behind.

* * *

Hello again, thank you so much again for everything :)

I was, very timid about this chapter...I got such a great response from the fist part I AM TERRIFIED this one will be a bummer :'(


	3. Prologue III

Hey! **27** reviews...did I ever mention how amazing you people are? :D Well, you people are AMAZIIIIINNNNGGG! thank you so much :D

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* * *

**Prologue III**

_And so lying underneath those stormy skies__  
She'd say, "oh, ohohohoh I know the sun must set to rise"__  
This could be__  
Para-para-paradise__  
Para-para-paradise_

_Coldplay-Paradise _

It was colder than she'd thought it would be...and greyer too. Where the Capitol had been vibrant and colourful, every shade of blue, pink, red, yellow and green that comes to imagination, the north was bleak, seeming to always be under a cold film.

Sylvia missed home terribly. She missed Myrcella, with her golden hair and shy gentle smile, missed the days when they'd play together, giving life to their dolls or having pretend luncheons where their dolls were the main guests. She missed her mother and father, even though mother preferred to coddle Joffrey and father loved his wine. She missed the warm red brick halls of the Red Keep, the sunshine of the south, the cool silk dresses she had exchanged for an ugly wool dress. She missed Stuffy, _much_ more than she'd thought, the distance between them almost painful. She missed Bryda's warm arms and even missed having to play the harp until her finger tips blistered. She did not miss Joffrey, but knew it was ill not to. Sylvia thought maybe that was why the gods didn't send some fantastic intervention on their journey to send her home, because she didn't care if she ever saw her wretched brother again.

Upon their departure, Sylvia refused to see anyone for six days, barely leaving the wheelhouse and even when she did, she dashed away like a frightened deer when someone attempted to speak to her, slamming and locking the wheelhouse door out of spite for those taking her to new owners. Soon, as all children do, she grew lonely in her isolation, and left the wheelhouse begrudgingly when their rather small party stopped at inns and towns at night. Yet even then, she barely spoke, just quietly nibbled the fine meal the cook had made special for her and mulled over what her what her new foster family would think of her.

On one such a night, halfway through their journey, somewhere in the riverlands, Sylvia sat at the table, her septa to her left, hissing unheard criticism in her ear for her terrible table manners, while Ser Ravenback sat across from her. Six guards remained around the table, while the other six remained outside with two pages, ensuring no one stole the princess' belongings. Sylvia slowly ate a peppered boiled egg, completely uncaring the roast chicken set before her. She wondered if Lord Stark was as open with his whores as her father was. Many a time Sylvia had seen the masked fury in her mother's eyes whenever father carried on with those women at feasts, never caring in his drunken delirium, that his wife and children could see him. Sylvia did not know life any differently; it had always been like that, ever since she could remember, an eternal pattern of too many horns of wine, followed by plump serving wenches laughing stupidly on her father's lap. She had heard of lords having mistresses, but they were far more discreet since she only knew them through rumours. As far as Sylvia's young, childish understanding went, _all_ men had whores in their beds; it was just a matter of how subtle they were with them.

Once she had asked her mother why father did the things he did, and Cersei just glared at her and said to never ask such a stupid question again. Sylvia had been five then, and cried for half an hour and explained the entire event to Stuffy as she lay abed, heartbroken at her mother's harshness.

None of those women father ever kissed or fondled even came close to her mother, strong and fierce and beautiful. She was the embodiment of quiet strength; the kind of strong Sylvia wanted to be. She knew lords and kings were not the same, and father had once spoken very highly of this stranger lord, but father's version of good company was...questionable.

Suddenly, a coin rolled towards her from across the table, a silver stag falling to its side and spinning to a stop. Looking up from her lap, she saw that Ser Fredrik only continued drinking his wine cup as if the coin had appeared out of thin air.

Slowly, she reached for the coin, feeling its cold weight in her fingers. The silver stag's antler necklace around her neck had once had that feel, so cold and surprisingly heavy. Uncle Renly had given it to her on her last name day celebration. "You're a Baratheon," he had said, his always kind and happy eyes making her smile as well. "Never forget that, no matter the sot you marry. You know our words: _Ours is the Fury._"

Ser Fredrik put down his goblet, and stole a quick glance at her, waiting for her to roll it back and begin the game they had played many times before. But Sylvia, still too hurt that she had been sold and bought by another family, slapped the coin down on the table and strode out of the tavern, all six of her guards marching after her. Ser Fredrik had half a mind to go out there and scold the child for her wretched attitude as they made their way north, but he held his tongue. The princess may favor him in her way, but he was still a servant and she was still his mistress, no matter how long he had been in service to her. The septa traveling with the princess was just as unable to do much. Princesses could be as irritable and bratty as they wanted, and only a noble could discipline them for their behavior. Anyone else would face punishment if they dared.

The next morning, Sylvia and septa Maesa sat waiting in the wheelhouse as the men outside ensured the horses were fed and watered. To pass the long tedious hours, the princess and her septa sewed, septa Maesa stitching together another ugly wool dress that her charge would wear in her new home and the princess was embroidering a crooked flower design onto a patch of ivory silk. She didn't know what to use it for yet, but it hardly mattered, especially since it was poor work and only a way to pass the time.

As they worked, septa Maesa attempted to refresh the princess' lessons on the north, she would be married to a Northman someday and it would be wise to know her husband's histories. "And what was the name of the Stark king who bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror?" the septa asked as the wheelhouse began to move.

Sylvia did not answer. The septa looked up to her charge, and saw that she did not even seem to hear her as Sylvia kept stitching with slow but careless precision. The princess' long black hair was pulled half back, a rather unimpressive, almost lazy style for a lady of her status, and it had been a challenge to get her dressed that morning into the plain green northern style dress she now wore. The girl seemed most determined to prompt her to anger, and the septa was loath to admit, it was working. "Sylvia."

At once the girl snapped her head up, glaring at the septa with her bright blue eyes as though the woman had just hissed a foul name at her. "_Don't_ call me that." She spat. "I don't _know_ you; you're not my mother, not Bryda. You've no right to call me by my name."

Sylvia didn't like this woman. She missed Bryda; she missed her stories, her soft words, and the mole on her cheek. But this septa Maesa, she wasn't warm, wasn't gentle, she was young enough to have straight fingers...she wasn't Bryda. Sylvia didn't _want_ to learn new people, new faces, new stories. She had been perfectly happy in the Capitol, Joffrey's bullying aside. The south was all she knew, and she was the _princess_, why couldn't Robb Stark go south for her? Why did she have to go north for him? Why did she have to marry him _at all?_ Nothing else would ever measure up to her home where the sun always shone, even in the rain, and where beauty was a natural thing everywhere you looked. Sylvia hated her father for doing this to her and hated all his councillors in King's Landing for not stopping him.

"_Princess_," the septa hissed, annoyance clear in her high voice. "What was the name of the Stark king who—"

"I don't _care_! _Nobody_ cares about the king of a barren land who knelt to a conqueror three hundred years ago! No one cares what his name was and if Lord Stark wasn't my father's best friend, no one would care about hi—"

"Princess! Do not say such things!" the septa dropped her work to her lap, anger and shock written across her face. "It is _extremely_ disrespectful of your foster family; those people will take you in and ensure you become a proper, cultured lady. They will be your family one day remember." The septa ranted, her resolve finally cracking as Sylvia finally stepped over the line she had been dancing upon.

Sylvia scoffed at her septa. "They will _never_ be my family." She muttered, sadness creeping into her hard tone. She had a family already; she had no need for another. What could the Starks possibly have to offer her that she did not have in the south? In the south, bards and traders and men of every kind of mastery came in on the tide and wind, daily and beyond counting. It was always sunny in the Capitol; even the rain was warm as blood on ones skin. And in the Red Keep, her sister, Stuffy, mother and father lived. She missed them so much. She wanted to cry, but her mother's words had left a mark on her. _Tears are the weakness of your heart made bare._ So she kept her tears back until the black of night, when she finally let a few slip, clutching a soft silk pillow tightly in her arms.

And the Starks' opinion of her may quickly change when they learned about Stuffy. Sylvia wouldn't outright tell them, but these things had a tendency of following you from one place to another. Everyone thought she was strange, and although they never spoke it louder than whispers, those whispers seemed like shouts. The servants and some of the lesser ladies at court who had little grace when it came to gossip, watched her as if waiting for her to do something strange or make a utter fool of herself. When she first began to talk, and when Stuffy first came to light, Sylvia had been too young to care what people thought. Children so young had no idea that there was anything wrong or rude or ugly or cruel in the world. She had Stuffy, a playmate, a confidant...a friend, and that had been all that mattered. The names Joffrey had called her had once seemed so small, so..._momentary_, gone moments after the words left his mouth. Her mother and father never made fun of her, not in the painful way Joffrey did at least. Then Jon Arryn told her the truth of it and the ignorance of childhood began to fade away.

Life in the Capitol was familiar, she knew what to expect. In Winterfell, it would be like stepping into the frigid icy sea after a steaming hot bath.

"Like it or not, you'll marry Lord Stark's heir, you will be his wife and he will be your family. You will lady his castle and bear northern children." The septa continued her voice cold and commanding.

I don't want to be his wife, Sylvia thought, I would rather be an old maid my entire life than marry a stranger and have his children and live in his cold and murky castle, locked away forever and ever. What if he is like Joffrey? The thought frightened her.

What if...Robb Stark called her stupid, halfwit, foolish? What if he pulled her hair like Joffrey did or hit her like father hit mother? It may well hurt much more than Joffrey's taunts, because her mother or Bryda would not be able to comfort her or protect her from it. It was a common assumption that husbands were meant to be kind and gentle to their wives and having a husband who was anything but kind and gentle would hurt. He would be able to get away with it too because he would be her husband, and husbands were allowed to do as they wished with their wives, even if they were princesses.

* * *

Sylvia stared out the window as they entered the castle walls. After over a month's traveling, Sylvia Baratheon finally entered the walls of Winterfell castle, six of her guards leading the wheelhouse forward and the other six bringing up the rear. She bit her thumb nail as her stomach did flips inside her; she had never been so nervous in her entire life. What if they didn't like her?

Lord Eddard Stark stood in line with his family, his wife to his left as was the custom, and his children to his right. Behind them stood their household, all dressed in their finest clothes to receive the princess. When the unfamiliar guards entered the courtyard, followed by a wheelhouse that looked too big for an eleven year old girl, the boy at his side, Robb, tensed.

Each of Eddard's children had a different outlook to the coming of the princess. Sansa, his eight year old daughter, was unbelievably joyful. She had never met a princess before, and that caused for a bit of fascination and interest. The title which Sylvia Baratheon bore was a shining jewel to little Sansa's eyes, and she was very eager to meet the little lady. Arya, his second daughter, didn't much care that a princess was coming to be her mother's ward. She cared little for beauty and ladyship, his little wildling child loved running, getting dirty and roughhousing with her brothers. Bran, his six year old son, was only interested in the guards that would accompany Sylvia, already so fascinated with swords and archery and knighthood. Rickon, the toddler, was still at his wife's breast and didn't much know or care what was happening, only concerned with when his next feeding would be, and finding his feet. Jon, his bastard, was much like Arya, although he knew the gravity of the arrival better than her, so he was a bit more curious. Then there was Robb, his eldest son and heir, the one who would eventually marry the princess.

Lord Stark looked down at his son, smiling in affection when he saw Robb once again, shift from foot to foot, breathe in deep and sigh heavily for the tenth time. Robb was twelve years old, a child more than anything, but he was becoming a man, and men had duties they had to perform. It was a bit funny to call a marriage a duty, but really, when it was an arrangement, that is what it is. Still, as time goes by, an arrangement—a duty, can become a marriage, a privilege.

Robb was unsure what to make of it, never having met the girl and now ordered to marry her when they came of age. Why did he have to marry her? Why did she have to come all the way here to his home? Winterfell had always been his home, a place where his childhood played out and where he could be as he was without worry. Now this girl was going to live there, and he felt he would have to watch his steps, all because this girl was going to be his wife. It felt as though his home would not be _his_ anymore, he would have to share it with a stranger. Mayhaps it wouldn't be so bad if she were not his betrothed; but she was, and he grew stiff as a board when thinking of how his simple world had changed in only a short time.

Finally, the wheelhouse came to a stop, and the guards dismounted their horses, and marched to the wheelhouse, one of the page boys opening the door with careful precision. Robb bit his lip, Sansa smiled gleefully, Jon watched in quiet curiosity, and Theon smirked, as he often did. The younger ones just watched, waiting for the pomp to be over with.

At first, a woman in a plain yellow dress and a head scarf stepped out of the wheelhouse and walked down the steps, frowning in the sudden light. Eddard guessed that was the child's septa. And then, Sylvia slowly stepped through the door of the wheelhouse, taking the septa's outstretched hand and walking down the steps with as much grace as a lady of her age possessed. She was a small little thing, shorter than Sansa, whose head already came up under Robb's chin. She had the same raven black hair as her father, and later he would find she had the same eyes, but as far as he saw, that was where the similarities stopped. The princess was skinny, delicate features, soft doe eyes framed by long black lashes, and timid, he noted when she didn't look up until she began walking towards them. Sylvia walked, slowly as if they were going to eat her. The Lord of Winterfell smiled gently.

Robb frowned. She was...she wasn't what he'd...he didn't know what he'd expected, but whatever it was, she was not it. She was a girl: same lithe build as any other girl their age, simple dark hair, a pretty face. She did not seem an enigma that he had thought she'd be, but rather just another girl he could have passed any day and not noticed. He did not know what else to make of her.

Catelyn stole a quick look at her eldest child, smiling at his befuddled look. When she was very young, a girl still, she had made that same face when she saw Brandon Stark the first time, the stranger who she would spend her life with.

Sylvia approached the Starks, scarcely daring to breathe as her numb feet moved. She knew it was impolite to refuse to meet your host's eyes, but Sylvia couldn't do it. She was too afraid, so she kept her head averted to their knees. No one's knees ever scared you. Not only was she shy of her hosts, she didn't want to look up and see her betrothed. A thought struck her suddenly. What if he was ugly? What if father had sold her to an ugly creature with one eye and no nose, and crooked nubs for fingers, and half an ear? What if he sold her to an imp like Uncle Tyrion? She bit her lip and bravely looked up, thinking of her mother and hoping she had mimicked her confidence well.

Lord Stark was a tall man, with kind eyes and his red haired wife was gentle looking. Sylvia kept her eyes trained on them and them only, feeling too nervous yet to look elsewhere. If Robb Stark looked like Uncle Tyrion, she didn't want to look at him; she'd probably break down weeping and run back to the wheelhouse and shame herself and her family for the rest of her life.

"Welcome to Winterfell, my princess." Ned said kindly when the small girl reached the line, her septa and sworn shield standing only a few paces behind her. He bowed slightly.

"Princess," Catelyn greeted, smiling a kind smile at the girl.

Sylvia looked down, her face never faltering from its cold, blank look. Bending her knees and keeping her back straight, Sylvia quickly curtseyed, so quickly in fact, it looked more like a hop than a curtsey. Theon snickered. Jory gave him a quick thwack on the back.

Now was the time for Sylvia to acknowledge her courtesies—thank the Starks for receiving her, pledging to be good and respectful ward, telling them that the nobles in the Capitol send their best—but Sylvia said nothing, her voice lost in the silent crowd of strangers waiting for her to speak. For a long, awkward moment, it was silent as the Starks waited for her to respond, some wondering if she was deaf and mute, and others (who had heard the rumours that the princess may be mad) wondered eagerly if the little royal would do anything strange. Septa Maesa raised her hand to poke the princess on the back, hoping it would strike some sense into the frozen child, but Ser Ravenback knocked the septa's hand aside roughly, shooting her a stern look. His glare at her was clear and loud, 'Let the girl alone'.

Sylvia flushed. Her mother would be ashamed of her daughter's timorous display. Sylvia curled her fingers. Mother had always been strong and regal, a queen through and through. When father embarrassed himself and mother as well, she always kept her head high, her shoulders back, her stare unwavering when others would avert their eyes. Sylvia's predicament was _far_ less distressing. She sighed. "I...T-thank you for receiving me, Lord and Lady Stark."

The proper manners done with, the lord and lady grinned and the crowd seemed to relax.

"Princess, this is my son, Robb." Ned introduced. Sylvia wondered if he was trying to be subtle about it, wondering if he wanted to make it seem as though he was just introducing his child instead of the boy she'd marry one day, just to calm her nerves. Slowly, Sylvia lifted her eyes from her hands and looked at the boy standing beside Lord Stark. She began at his feet, at the brown leather boots he wore; then at his legs, clothed with black breeches that seemed a little too big for him; then at his chest, he wore a brown leather doublet over a dark blue tunic and on his shoulders was a cloak collared with warm rabbit fur. Then she looked at his face...and relaxed a little. At least he wasn't hideous.

Robb Stark was there somewhere between the innocence of childhood and the hardness of manhood, a softness still in his cheeks and chin and jaw, but it was already fading and becoming angular. He was taller than her, she probably only came up to his chest. His curly dark auburn hair was actually quite nice looking, and he had pretty blue eyes that stood out from his pale skin and dark hair. Still, she knew from Joffrey that a sweet face can house a gnarled soul.

Ned and Catelyn shared a small smile as the two children regarded each other with shy curiosity. They looked at each other a moment, before looking away, frowning and unsure. It wasn't the happiest reaction they could have hoped for, but it was to be expected. Children were not meant to deal with marriages; they were forced from the safety of childhood into the responsibility of adulthood so quickly. It was confusing and probably frightening, having the person you would be with for the rest of your life suddenly decided for you, and placed in front of you with everyone telling you "love them for they will give you children and you will be stuck with them until one of you dies."

"Come, princess," Catelyn addressed soothingly, hoping gentleness would calm the girl's nerves. "I'll show you your chambers, and perhaps fetch you something to eat. You must be hungry after your long journey." Lady Catelyn turned and motioned for Sylvia to follow.

Saying nothing, not even looking back to her companions, Sylvia followed Lady Catelyn. Sylvia's hand curled, wishing there was the warmth of someone else's hand in hers, holding her to the ground, to reality. It felt as though she was walking in a dream. She wished Stuffy was with her.

* * *

"Didn't like what ya saw, Stark?" Theon teased as he, Jon and Robb practised in the yard with their wooden swords later in the day just before the feast. Robb had not seen Sylvia again since she arrived early in the morning, and he was not sure he wanted to. What would he say to her?

Robb rolled his eyes. "No. Wait, yes, I mean, she's just not, she is, I—" Robb broke off, groaning in annoyance. "I don't know. She's pretty but..." he poked the blunt tip of the sword into the dirt at his feet. He didn't know what to say. Sylvia, he decided, _was_ pretty, but he was a boy yet and it was all sudden for him. He didn't even know her and it felt like everyone was suddenly expecting him to like her after a moment of looking at each other. It was one thing to think a girl was pretty, but another thing entirely to decide she would make a good wife.

Theon laughed. "Well one of the maids—Wynifred, or was it Wynona?—" at sixteen years old, Theon Greyjoy was already popular with the maids about the castle. "Said the princess pushed all of them out of her room after all her things were brought up. Called them a bunch of ninnies when they tried to come back in to unpack."

_She's probably tired,_ Robb thought but he didn't say it. If she was just a little twat he didn't want to go through the trouble of defending her.

"She's a princess, and it's _her_ room now anyway. She's allowed tell them to get out." Jon mumbled, crossing his arms as best he could with the thick padding covering his chest.

"In any case, send her to me if you don't want her Robb. She's not a woman now, but in a few years, she'll be quite the fox." Robb glared at his father's ward, raised his practice sword, and swiped him hard on the arm.

Sylvia looked at herself in the mirror as the maid behind her braided and pulled her hair. Stupid girl didn't know how to braid; Sylvia winced as she once again painfully twisted her hair into some ridiculous northern style. She wanted to tear the braids out, brush out her hair and go with her hair down. Looking plain was better than looking like some northern _thing_. She wished one of her maids from King's Landing had come with her, but septa Bryda had said a proper lady embraces the customs of her husband's land with grace and courage, so she had to go without as much as she resented it.

She already wore the dark blue dress Sansa had given her as a gift, an embroidered vine pattern along the arms and the nonexistent curve of her hips. Although the work was fine, she had seen finer in King's Landing. Sansa and her little sister Arya had come and gone not long ago, bringing the dress and a simple jewelled comb for her hair. To be polite, Sylvia pulled the ugly flower embroidery from her sewing basket, and gave it to silly Sansa. Sylvia smiled inside; Sansa would take the ugly thing just because she had given it to her.

Sansa chirped polite lines, while Arya blurted out whatever she wished. Sansa reminded her somewhat of Myrcella, always eager to please, always smiling, sweet and innocent. She liked it; maybe Sansa's presence might soothe the pain of being without her sister.

However, Sylvia hadn't met _anyone_ like Arya, so unladylike, so carefree, and never afraid to say what she wanted. She was so...blunt. She seemed to care little if her sister screeched at her for it or if Sylvia sent her a disapproving look. Sylvia had never been around anyone that didn't tiptoe around her (but for Joffrey, but he was her brother so didn't count), but Arya did as she liked without fear. She scowled when Sansa tried to make her apologize for her rudeness to Sylvia and ran out of the room without saying goodbye. It was strange, _Arya_ was strange, and she didn't know if it was endearing or annoying. Bryda had said that being a lady was to be a moving work of art, graceful, delicate, beautiful, and able to keep men entertained without taking their clothes off. Arya really wasn't the first three, but Sylvia couldn't deny the six year old was entertaining.

The love between the sisters was nothing like the love she had for Myrcella. Those two _argued_, both strong willed and unbendable, where Myrcella had been so sweet and little, she followed whatever her elder sister said. Sansa seemed rather mortified to be arguing in front of the princess, and in her annoyance, Sylvia pointedly asked the two to leave. She had traveled too far and too long to be made to listen to their stupid arguments.

Finally the stupid girl behind her had finished and carefully slipped the comb into the tangle of braids. It was time to go to the feast, and Sylvia hoped it wouldn't be a long one. She knew Robb would be the one to escort her in, after the lord and lady. She didn't know what to think of that, but hoped it wouldn't feel like walking on rocks.

* * *

A week passed by with about as much clamour and movement as the first day Sylvia arrived. Her guards had been absorbed into Lord Stark's guard, much to her relief, and now she only had Ser Fredrik following her around all day. Lords and Ladies from the closer holdfasts arrived within the first few days of her arrival, brining kind greetings and gifts to the princess in welcome. Everyday Sylvia had to meet new people, sing new songs of thanks, she never knew what to expect. One lord, she couldn't remember his name, had actually given her _a bear claw_ necklace, the twine sporting six long, curved bear claws. She liked that one most of all, because in the south, there were no bears.

In the second week, things had calmed a little, the lords and ladies went as quickly as they came, and Sylvia was finally able to sleep early and wake up late. Then her lessons began and she was told by Lady Stark she'd be taught the histories of Westeros, sums, some astronomy and geography from Maester Luwin, while her sour septa Maesa taught her womanly arts. Sylvia accepted without protest or enthusiasm.

The first day, it felt so strange, walking to the main hall in the castle where the maester taught his lessons. She had never been taught by a maester before, only by a septa. Mother said girls didn't need to learn those things; they never came in use when you were married, she had said. Perhaps this is what that shrew meant when she said that the Stark's would turn her into a proper, cultured lady.

"...and you mustn't speak out of turn, and don't slouch, a lady doesn't slouch like a common fishwife." Septa Maesa went on as she walked her charge to the great hall, yammering on about manners to Sylvia who walked quietly behind her, annoyed but nervous. The princess had been quiet this past week, not the lively, sweet girl she had been in King's Landing, but rather a shy, almost cold girl since entering Winterfell's walls.

Ser Ravenback trailed behind them, a little perturbed when Sylvia didn't reply back like he knew she would have. He worried for his charge; he liked her very much, having been with her since she was three when the queen found him at a tourney. Cersei had complimented his strength and endurance, and swore that if he kept her daughter safe from any harm that may come her way, she would pay him more gold than he could ever make as a simple hedge knight. He took it eagerly. But being around a small girl for days and days, watching her grow, and smile, and laugh and scream and whine had grown a strange affection in his heart, a soft vulnerable spot just for Sylvia. He did not hate it, but neither did he show it, it was just a simple fact Ser Fredrik Ravenback found no use in fighting.

"...and please, try not to be rude; your betrothed will be there with you, best not give him reason to mislike you." Finally, Sylvia had enough of sour septa Maesa's talk, the reminder that Robb Stark would be sharing her lessons igniting her annoyance into a spark. Like an indignant little girl, she screwed up her face and worked her mouth silently into an ugly distortion of what septa Maesa's face looked like. Pettily, Sylvia continued her silent mockery until they walked through the open doors of the hall, unthinking that anyone would be there yet. Unfortunately there was.

Robb Stark sat there, already reading a rather large book with Maester Luwin pointing out something for him on one thick, yellow page. The septa's voice carried and the two looked just in time to see a rather funny looking face that Sylvia was making.

Robb omitted a snort of laughter, which stopped Sylvia short, freezing at the unexpected laugh. The two children looked at each other for a second, horror written across Sylvia's pretty face at being caught, blushing like mad. Oh gods, _now_ she would hear the taunts, not through the fault of rumours, but her own childish actions. She wanted to run away. Robb, however, was pleasantly surprised. She had been so dethatched this past week, it was nice to see her having something other than a blank expression on her face. Never would he have thought that the princess would be anything short of a perfect lady, always snooty and cloyingly polite, never anything else or in between; and there she was, making faces at her cranky looking septa like any other child their age. Baratheon seemed to be just a name she possessed, and he liked it, she seemed far less confusing and intimidating when she didn't have that name attached to her first.

"Ah, little lady," Maester Luwin greeted, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Please have a seat, Robb and I were just going over the regions of Westeros." Ser Fredrik and septa Maesa went away, the latter going to organize Sylvia's messy room, the former standing guard outside the door. Timidly, still mortified she had been caught, but seeing no way out of the coming lesson, Sylvia walked closer to the benches where Robb sat, and took a seat next to him. He was _so_ tall next to her and for the first time, someone of similar age was taller than her.

The lesson progressed for the next hour without much noise from either student; both were still too scared to move around the one beside them. Sylvia was thankful. From Joffrey, she would have heard rude quips about her embarrassment throughout the lesson, but from Robb Stark she heard nothing but silence.

Every now and then, Sylvia would sneak a glance at Robb, admiring his profile, noticing the crease between his eyebrows when he wrote on the parchment. He seemed agreeable enough, as of yet, but he was still a stranger. She wanted to go home, so _badly_, but she couldn't help but have a small hope that he liked her, the childish need for acceptance tugging at her. She would never admit it, not even to herself. She wondered if she'd ever hear insults from his mouth, spitting at her like poison from a snake, just like mother had said. She hoped not.

"Alright, now princess, what was the name of the Stark who built the Wall and Winterfell?" Maester Luwin asked, pointing at the locations on the map in front of them. Sylvia tensed. At that moment she regretted not paying attention to her sour septa. She felt so horribly stupid, sitting there silent, no answer to give. But suddenly, an unexpected hand knocked against hers. She looked down, and felt the boy next to her force his warm hand between hers and quickly slip a folded paper between her fingers. As soon as she'd grasped it, he yanked his hand away, as if it had never been there.

For a moment she was stunned, sitting, unknowing what to do. Maester Luwin turned and began speaking, almost as if he knew what was going on, or Robb knew the old man's mannerisms well enough to know when to pass her the note.

"He lived during the Age of Heroes, they say he completed the Wall with the help of giants, his name has been repeated to present time..." the maester prompted, back turned, watching the Stark banner hang proudly from the stone wall, looking so dreary and cold.

Quickly, Sylvia unfolded the paper in her lap, blue eyes scanning over the parchment. "_Bran the Builder_." She read off, whispering silently to herself as she stared at the small strip of paper. _When_ had he written this?

"Pardon?" Maester Luwin asked, turning back around to face the two children.

"U-uh, um," really, what choice did she have? "Bran the Builder?" she offered timidly, her voice small and unsure.

"Correct! Lovely; now Robb, what else did Bran the Builder develop during his reign as the King of Winter?" The old maester asked, oblivious to the brief transaction between the two.

The old man's voice seemed to fade away as she squeezed her hand around the paper, crumpling it into a ball. Sylvia smiled a shy smile, curious at Robb's actions. She hated this place, missed her family, but Robb's sudden act was kind, and if he was kind, perhaps it wouldn't be as horrid as she had thought it would be.

"Thank you." Sylvia whispered when the old man once again turned his back as he continued his lecture.

"You're welcome." Robb replied.

And so the lesson continued, both Robb and Sylvia feeling a little better about the arrangement thrust upon them.

* * *

_**I sadly approach this as Stannis approaches his wife's bed :(**_

_**Please let me know if it was alright, or if it was lacking, cuz if it was bad, I'd like to know how to make it better **_

_**Thank you again, so much for all the reviews and favorites and alerts :D**_


	4. Chapter 1: Home

**Ok here's why I went MIA: I was stumped on where to start D:**

**I had an entire, half written chapter on Robb and Sylvia's misadventures in the very early years of knowing each other, but I got some serious writers block and forgot how I was gonna organize it, and then I lost inspiration and then I thought, "would they wanna read all this?" **

**So I decided that I shall jump ahead and get on with the story where it matters and if anyone is interested, I'll post the chapter on Robb/Sylvia's early years as a one-shot. **

**Sound good? (me in a high squeaky voice), **_**Yes it sounds good, great idea!**_** (me in different voice) ****You're so smart, Roweena, and you have such nice teeth**** (Me) Oh stop it you =D**

_Hold on, to me as we go__  
__As we roll down this unfamiliar road__  
__And although this wave (wave) is stringing us along__  
__Just know you're not alone__  
__Cause I'm gonna make this place your home_

Home by Philip Philips

**Chapter 1**

_Three years later_

For a long time, Sylvia stared at herself in the mirror, staring at the pretty young face that frowned back at her, still soft and innocent from her girlhood, her long black hair, wet from her bath, dripping beads of water down her body. In her concentration, she hardly felt the shiver move through her body, staring intently down at the small breasts budding on her chest and further down still to the curls between her legs.

It was early afternoon and she had just finished her bath, having ordered her handmaidens out of her chambers once more so that she may dress herself without them watching her. Really, how much help could they offer? This was also the only time where she could thoroughly examine the womanly body she now possessed, looking and touching herself in ways she never could with others present, or at night in the dark, under the covers.

She brushed her long wet hair back and raised her hand to touch her breast, feeling the soft mound fit easily in her palm, the nipple, hardened from the cold air, poking against her skin. She felt very grown all of a sudden, like a woman. She wasn't a child anymore, that was clear, but she wasn't yet a woman. Her body still had some of the flatness of her girlhood, and she was only just starting to grow rounder.

These changes seemed to happen overnight somehow. It felt like one night she lay down to sleep and when she awoke, these womanly features had just grown, strange and almost unanticipated.

Sour septa Maesa had even said as much. A few months ago, while she read over a book about the customs of old Valyria (she had wanted the read the book about the Summer Islands, but septa Maesa refused to let her—said it was a _vulgar_ thing for a lady to read), the stern looking woman spoke up from her stitching, her voice loud in the all but silent room. "You're truly coming into a womanly form." The sour old woman commented from her chair, _almost_ sounding indifferent to the budding flower her charge was growing into. But Sylvia could tell the sour septa would say more, and probably offend her, as she always did when she used that voice to speak of delicate things in a rather indelicate manner. "Have you bled yet?" she asked bluntly, as though she was simply asking if Sylvia had remembered her manners when socializing with other ladies.

A sudden flame scorched across the young girl's face, coloring her pale skin red up to the roots of her hair. Sylvia snapped her head around to stare at the woman, unsure if she had heard her right, and quickly looked away when she found the septa staring right at her, unflinchingly. To her young virgin ears, hearing such private things spoken of so carelessly was as callous as an old sailor trying to woo a lady with lewd words. "I, how can you, no..._Don't ask me that!"_ the princess screeched.

"Princess, this is a matter of _great_ importance!" septa Maesa reminded her for the thousandth time. "You are a princess and you were born for this, child. You will marry the north and bind the crown to the Starks. You will be a lady of the north and your son will be young Robb's heir..." Sylvia sighed in annoyance, dropping her book into her lap. The old crone always reminded her of her duty; so many times Sylvia felt she could repeat her word for word.

Why was getting married and having children her duty anyway? What did it matter who fathered her children? Not that she'd ever put her future children's parentage into _question,_ mind you—she was a good girl, and even the thought of lying with anyone else but her intended was shameful. A lady lies with her lord, no one else. But she couldn't help but wonder, who _had_ decided that a lady's only duty was to make babies for her husband, but a man's duty was to lead, be fierce in battle, manage sums, keep the peace, and a hundred other things? A man couldn't be good at _all_ that. Maybe his wife could help him? She was clever; Maester Luwin and Lord Eddard said so.

Sylvia could smile. She was better than Robb at history and astronomy, she remembered facts and constellations better than he did, and always corrected him when he tried to point out a set of stars to her or his younger brothers and sisters. But he was better than her at sums and geography. She liked to think when they married, they would be as matched as they were now in their lessons—that they would be as equals, each giving the other something the other needed, besides a warm bed at night, and little children to scurry about these cold stone halls.

But Sylvia didn't smile. Her septa was still blabbering on. "...and so have you bled yet?" the dark haired princess did not answer, and made no indication she'd even heard the woman, as she so often did. "Well?" the sour woman demanded.

With great annoyance Sylvia grumbled out a short, "No," and the rest of the evening was spent in a cold silence.

Yes, Sylvia was becoming a pretty young lady, but she was still a girl. _Girl_...she'd never thought that word would sound like a curse to her ears.

That had been just a few short months ago, and still, no blood. She could hardly meet Lady Catelyn's eye anymore, feeling like a failure for still being a little girl at four-and-ten. She probably thought she was no good for Robb.

Mother said high born girls bleed at thirteen, but her thirteenth year had come and gone without event...well other than when Arya had given Sansa a toad for her name-day, that had been quite an amusing event, but the one that was essential to her family's ambition. Sylvia was the princess, much more than a lord's daughter, expected to be nothing but grace and perfection, to run a household, raise a family, perfect and beautiful, until she died. There was no other glory or honor a girl like her can have, but for the birth of strong and healthy children. Because she would marry into one of the oldest houses in the realm—ancient, wealthy and honourable—every month that passed would be watched with great interest, and her place in the north would only be cemented when she brought forth a child. What could Sylvia give her family if not a good marriage? She was supposed to be perfect, and marry Robb and give him babies, but each passing month made a little more anxious. What was wrong with her? Why wasn't she a woman yet? They said women that flowered late, had a harder time having babies. What if—?

Suddenly, the shudders of her window rattled with the wind, and a cold shiver slid down her wet back as the wind raced through the cracks of the wood and into her room. At once she grabbed up her under shift and yanked it over her head, then sat down on her bed and wrapped herself in the shawl that had been lying on the warm fur blanket.

One thing she had never gotten used to was the cold—the south had never had cold like this, even in the winter. And with that thought, she missed the Capitol once more, although the ache had faded in the last three years into something bearable.

"My lady," a soft voice called from beyond her door. She knew the gentle, timid voice. It was Pansy, one of her many handmaidens, who after being dismissed by her young mistress, found it suitable to wait outside the door until the princess called her back in again. "Y-your septa wants you for lessons," Pansy told her.

The onyx haired princess rolled her eyes, not out of any real annoyance, but out of long established disdain for her frigid septa. Still, she stood and walked to the dressing screen at the corner of her room, and retrieved the blue dress flung over the top of it. Dressing quickly, she called for Pansy to tie the tricky laces up the back and then stalked down the cold corridors towards the Great Hall in Winterfell for lessons, Ser Fredrik quietly at her side.

* * *

"...and in considering the values, how much land would be needed to construct this new holdfast and town?" the old Maester's voice carried down the stone corridors and bounced off the hollow hall where Robb Stark and Sylvia Baratheon's lessons were conducted for four hours every day.

The young lord and princess sat beside each other, as they had nearly every day since the young princess first arrived in Winterfell. Maester Luwin could hardly believe how much the two had grown in such a small amount of time—he had known Robb since he was a babe at his mother's breast, and had seen Sylvia nearly every day since she became the Stark's fosterling...it warmed his heart to look at them now, so young and with so much to look forward to.

Robb didn't answer at once, as he worked the numbers around in his head, but he was still a lot faster than Sylvia who was desperately trying to conjure an answer, her fingers dancing anxiously on the table. Given time and parchment to work the answers out on, she would get it...eventually. "Forty-seven acres." The young lordling answered.

"Well done." Maester Luwin praised softly, but no less genuinely.

By far, sums were Sylvia's least favorite lesson. She felt the fool whenever she missed an answer or simply couldn't find it, and immensely enjoyed history and astronomy lessons, where she proved time and time again she was as clever as Robb. When sour septa Maesa learned of her charges' fondness of besting her betrothed, the woman entered into a tiring lecture on how proper, gentle ladies were supposed to be glad for their lord's accomplishments, not make it into a competition and enjoy competing with him. Ladies didn't do such things.

Sylvia huffed in annoyance, dropping the quill to the parchment. "This is so bloody stupid!" she grumbled. She turned to Robb, glaring at him with her ocean deep eyes. "Robb, can't you give _me_ a moment to answer for once?"

"Well I _could_, but if I _did_, we'd be here till past supper and I rather like the cooks' roasted lamb." Robb countered cheekily, amusement dancing in his lake blue eyes at his friend's annoyance. Sylvia was fun to tease, she would get so worked up: stomp her foot, poke his chest, pout her pretty pink lips, and by the time she'd storm away in a huff, Robb was so amused, his glee would pass to Sylvia, effectively ending her frustration.

"Robb," the Maester chided softly.

"Oh, shut it." Sylvia hissed back at the boy. "How many times have I _fallen asleep_, while waiting for you to find the Warrior's Star? And the Mother's Comet? Or the Dancing Doe? Or the Dragon's Eye?"

"Sylvia," the Maester interjected again. Unlike the child's septa, the sweet old man had the princess' permission to call her by name.

"Stars look all the same! _They're just little dots in the sky!"_ the auburn haired boy countered hotly.

"That's why you have to be _especially_ clever to tell between them." Sylvia smiled sweetly. Robb's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to counter her words, but Maester Luwin cut him off.

"Enough, from the both of you." The two children looked away from each other, and turned to the Maester, almost as if remembering he was there. "You'll have plenty of time to bicker at each other outside of this Hall. Now is the time for sum lessons." He emphasized by tapping the parchment laid out in front of him with his stick. Even when scolding them, Sylvia thought, he always managed to sound sweet and kind, not haughty or mean.

"Yes, Maester." They chorused. Maester Luwin nodded in approval, but as soon as his back was turned, Sylvia turned to Robb to smack his arm, while he made a little face at her.

So much had happened in the three years that Sylvia had lived in Winterfell. Gone was the little girl Robb had known, frightened of her new surroundings, and angry and bratty to everyone who had sent her there and everyone that had welcomed her.

For a good long time in the beginning, Robb didn't even know what Sylvia sounded like or if she even could, always quiet and shy as she was. She would look so distant sometimes, probably thinking of her family so far away in the south, and when she came back, remembering where she was, a sigh would leave her, her sadness making the air around her grow thick with discomfort, leaving Robb at a loss of what to say. He felt so awkward around her, especially these times. He was to marry her one day; shouldn't he know what to say to make her happy? Yet little black haired princess took Sansa's soft words with a gentle smile that was easily forced, and did not look to him as though she expected something from him. Robb was half grateful and half..._annoyed_ about that. She might not expect him to do something but he knew he had to.

So Robb swallowed his fear and uncertainty, speaking to her, smiling kindly, inviting her to spend time with him and his siblings, helping her with answers in lessons—_anything_ to put her at ease. It was the right thing to do, his noble father told him. "A little kindness you show her now," Lord Eddard had said, "will water the seed for a good marriage."

"But she isn't even _trying!"_ Robb explained to his father, confusion and anger in his young eyes.

"She is a little girl," Lord Eddard reminded him. "The princess is very far from home, most like misses her family. You are a northman, you know our ways, our customs, our lands. She is a southerner. Winterfell is as strange to her as the south would be to you."

All his efforts seemed for naught, however, and Robb soon began to fear that what was between them—or rather what _wasn't_ between them—would carry on until he and Sylvia were married, forced to endure the other's presence, for the sake of their honour and bloodline. The thought filled him with dismay and he came to dread _every_ lesson, _every_ feast and _every_ moment of free time he and Sylvia were forced to spend together by his mother. Lessons were filled with customary greetings and farewells, answers and questions for only the old maester teaching the two. Feasts always promised sweaty palms and sore toes when they danced, but a shy attraction at seeing the other looking their best. Their free time together varied, each time was different—sometimes it would last a moment, other times an entire afternoon, now and then they'd be outside with the other children, and others they'd be alone in the castle.

Neither child noticed with the shyness their betrothal brought, but over the weeks and weeks of seeing each other every day, Lord and Lady Stark's hope came true: they became familiar with each other, getting used to the other's simple presence. This familiarity eased the children's tension, now knowing what to expect from the other, and brought a little warmth to their time together little by little.

It happened gradually, but brick by brick, the walls came down, the armour came off, neither noticing the new vulnerability, only happy to feel warmth in their otherwise icy relationship.

Sylvia started it first, giggling at something witty Robb said in the middle of their history lesson. The hurt of leaving home was still there in her heart, but it had begun to dull, as all pain does with time. Then Robb asked her if she would like to play with him and his siblings in the godswood, without a hint of reluctance in his voice...and everything took flight. They began enjoying each other's company, finding that when they spoke, they liked the things that came from the other's mouth.

There were times when they hated each other, particularly when Robb refused to let Sylvia play with him, Jon and Theon. Robb hated that she always tried to intrude on their rough games and turn them into girly ones, and Sylvia hated that he always refused her. But children's anger is petty, so it didn't last very long.

King Robert smiled a little when the stewards brought him a letter from Ned, informing him that Sylvia had taken to riding with young Robb in their free time. Robert sat back in his chair, still clutching the small scroll. He and his Lyanna had enjoyed riding together to the Wolfs Wood and back, they had been so happy...he found himself almost resenting the fact that Sylvia would know the happiness he never would again. Lifting his cup to his mouth, Robert Baratheon forgot his troubles in the deep red drink sloshing about in his goblet.

The queen received the same letters, heard the same news, but received them much differently than her husband: Cersei didn't believe them and certainly didn't find them bittersweet reminders of young love. Sylvia was _her_ daughter, and her children were made of stronger stuff; they were Lannister's after all. But then again...Sylvia was half Roberts as well, half a stag, and Robert was _weak_—pining away for a woman long dead, drowning himself with wine and food and women, growing fatter and stupider each year. Joffrey was all hers and Jaime's, all Lannister. The two were so _different, _night and day, lion and stag...Sylvia had to be softer than Joffrey; her father was a drunken fool after all, where as Joffrey was her beautiful twin's, strong and fierce. But Sylvia _had_ to be smarter than to trust that Stark boy with her heart. She simply had to.

Of course neither Sylvia nor Robb knew these little facts, but it didn't matter. Life was uncomplicated now, and all they knew how to do was to enjoy it until the inevitable day when they would swear their vows before the heart-tree.

* * *

_It_ happened one afternoon as she embroidered a kitten pattern on a stretch of silk for little Tommen. Tommen was about to turn three and Sylvia had heard from Myrcella that he _adored_ kittens, so she decided to make him a pillow with kittens on it, and send it all the way down to the Capitol for the little brother she had never met.

Mother had _lied_. Sylvia never got the chance to visit her home, she would not see her family again until she was married it seemed, and she had hoped that would be very, very soon. If she _had_ flowered when she was _supposed_ to at thirteen, she would be married by now, and her mother and father and siblings would be there in Winterfell with her. She could see how Myrcella had grown without her there, ask her if Joffrey had been cruel to her or Tommen without the fear of someone hearing and telling mother. She could finally meet Tommen, let him know he had an elder sister from far away and give him a lot of hugs and kisses so he wouldn't forget her again when he went back south. She could see mother and father and uncle Tyrion and uncle Renly again... she wouldn't be the lone southerner in Winterfell any longer.

But none of that had happened, and it wouldn't until she was ripe and ready to bear babies. Sylvia would go without her family until then, like some cruel punishment. The Stark's were kind enough, she liked the other Stark children but they weren't her siblings (although she was very thankful they weren't Joffrey), she liked the lord and lady but they weren't her mother and father. Winterfell wasn't the Red Keep and the north certainly wasn't the south. This strange, cold place was lovely enough, but her heart still longed for the warmth of King's Landing.

Sylvia sighed, lowering her needlework to her lap. These thoughts were making her sad. It wasn't as though mother and father didn't _want_ her to visit; there must be some reason behind it. Perhaps they thought if she visited the Capitol, she'd refuse to leave again, or maybe it was because the kingsroad was dangerous in the summer years, bandits and savages ready to steal and raid...yes there must be a reason. Mother and father wouldn't leave her here without a reason.

The princess sighed and lifted up her work once again, stitching one last kitten into the silk fabric.

She hoped Tommen liked it; she wanted this stranger brother of hers to love her. Maybe if she was especially kind to him, he wouldn't be mean to her like Joffrey was. Sylvia only knew of Tommen through what little her sister could describe of him in her letters. She knew he was golden haired and emerald eyed, like Myrcella and Joffrey, that he was chubby as all babies were; that he liked kittens and sweets, and ran around after hit pet rabbit as fast as his baby legs could take him. Words only went so far, and she couldn't wait to meet her little brother.

Smiling a little at the kittens playing on the stretch of silk, Sylvia stood, intending on taking a break from her work and walking about the castle for a while, perhaps with Sansa or Robb or maybe she would just walk with Ser Fredrick. But when she stood, she felt a wet, gooey gush between her legs and something warm running down the inside of her thigh.

She froze, frowning at the strange sensation, dropped her work onto the floor, and then lifted up the skirt of her dress in a very unladylike manor that would have made her septa keel over dead at the sight. Sylvia pulled the layers of skirts up past her knees, to the tops of her thighs until her legs were only covered by her knee high stockings. Reaching one hand between her legs, she felt there a moment over her small clothes, and pulled back her hand.

The tips of her fingers were coloured a bright red. She looked down to her thighs then, and whimpered at the amount of blood stained there, fear and horror gripping her heart at the messy sight of it. A whirlwind of emotions swarmed thorough her then, like the rough winds in the winter, yanking and shaking flecks of snow through the air, traveling a hundred different directions because of one factor.

"S-septa!" Sylvia called out, her voice soft with a quiet kind of urgency.

The girl remained there in her room for the next few days, hardly seeing anyone. Somehow she had managed to convince her septa that she should not be out and about, that her newfound "condition" caused her unbearable belly pains and horrible headaches. Over exaggerated lies, Sylvia was simply too shy to see anyone, now that they _all knew_ something so...personal...was happening to her, something so ugly, and messy and _so_ indelicate. For all her titles and the prestige her name was held in, Sylvia was still a girl, not half as strong to bear the weight of the duty her father's name pressed down on her, and certainly not able to face the world as this disgusting _thing_ continued on.

For the most part, Sylvia simply lay stiff on her bed, too cautious to move in case any blood dripped down onto the sheets. The princess would try to read her book, or be social with Ser Fredrik, but mostly, she was just lost in her own head. Sylvia didn't know what to feel and trying to work what she _should_ feel, kept her occupied for the first two days. She supposed she should be happy, absolutely delighted that she had finally become a real woman, but with this new status, she was now faced with many more duties; some she did not know how to handle or if she even could.

Her upcoming marriage was most prominent in her mind. For a very long time, she had only thought of what that day would bring: her family—she had never really thought of the gravity of it. Married, she would be _married_, a wife..._Robb's wife_...the concept was so strange, so utterly _foreign_ she wanted to cry and scream at the same time. She didn't know if she knew how to _be_ a wife, how to make Robb happy or offer him good advice or simply comfort him. Wives had to do all that and more for their husbands, and her septa said if she was a good wife to Robb, Robb would love her and their marriage would be happy. And Robb was very kind to her, but...Sylvia didn't think he liked her the way a boy should like his betrothed.

Sylvia grunted as she turned over trying to get comfortable, not caring for just a second that she could feel that messy goop between her legs. That last thought made her very sad. Robb had never even kissed her, and now she was going to have to marry him and..._touch_ him and..._share_ his bed. The princess' face flushed a deep red at the thought. Of course there wouldn't be anything improper about it, Robb would be her husband, she would be his wife...but it was so embarrassing, the idea of being so _open_, laid bare in front of someone for the first time, someone you've never even kissed before that day.

Sometimes she wondered if Robb even noticed that she was growing into a woman. Sylvia sighed. It didn't seem like he noticed and if he had, he didn't show any interest. Robb's eyes didn't follow her longer than usual, he spoke to her about normal, common things rather than sweet soft things like a lovers does, and he had never kissed her. She tried not to feel sad for this, but how could she _not_? Robb was going to be her husband soon enough and what wife wanted a husband that didn't think she was beautiful, that didn't want her? If he didn't like her as a man likes a woman, it would be embarrassing; people would think she wasn't good, they would think she wasn't doing her duty as his wife. They would talk, everyone in the north would talk, think her barren, perhaps even say s he wasn't a maid when she went to Robb's bed, and be the shame of the entire north. She didn't understand why. Why didn't he want her?

* * *

A gentle breeze softly lifted a strand of the princess' silky black hair, but she hardly felt the tickle on her neck, too lost in her thoughts. The bark of the heart-tree behind her was rough even through the thickness of her dress and cloak, but the moss she sat on was comfortable and the way her knees were drawn up helped to keep the cold away.

Her courses had ended two days before, and this was the first time she'd been outside the castle grounds since it had started. She hadn't seen Robb yet, nor Jon or that smiley squid boy. Apparently Lord Stark and the boys had left a few days ago to settle a dispute at Torrhen's Square; some slave traders were caught trying to ship away captured common folk or something like that. Lady Catelyn said Robb would be home very soon, as though Sylvia missed him more than anything, now that she was ready to be his wife.

Sylvia groaned, dropping her hand from her cheek. Lady Catelyn had been quite happy to see Sylvia the day her red flower began to bloom. The princess wondered if every mother was happy to know their son's betrothed was ready to bear him children, or if Lady Catelyn was just strange. She supposed it didn't matter; the lady still took her hands in hers and smiled so kindly at her when she said she was now a woman and would be Robb's wife just after her fifteenth name-day. Sylvia smiled politely to hide her fears, and Lady Catelyn kept her company the entire afternoon talking about many things – wedding plans, what to expect now that she was a woman, what to expect when having a child, and how it was natural to be afraid, that Robb would be there to hold her hand through it all, just as Lord Stark had done for her.

The lady seemed to think that love had just burst in Sylvia's heart for Robb because of some blood. But that wasn't true. Nothing had really changed besides the fact that she was now ready to have babies. She did miss Robb's company because he was away, she missed his wit and sweetness and she missed the happy gleam he emitted, but it was something she could live through, it didn't hurt at all. Was it supposed to? Was being without him meant to hurt her? Was that love? _Hurt?_

Lady Catelyn liked to be around Lord Stark, the two always smiled together and touched, and the admiration in their eyes made it clear that they must love each other...and when the man was away, Lady Stark was a bit more somber, quieter, and more than once, Sylvia had seen a far off look in her eyes, probably thinking about her lord. Then when Lord Stark returned, she was happy again.

Mother and father were entirely different. They never smiled together, touched each other, or even said much to each other, even in private. It was a rare occasion when father visited her mother's apartments and didn't simply send for her or his children. Mother never complained when father left on hunting trips, in fact she seemed happier when he was gone. The young princess shifted, growing uncomfortable with these thoughts, but unable or unwilling to think of anything else.

At night sometimes when father visited her mother's chambers, Sylvia would awaken to shouts and the sounds of clattering silverware and bodies hitting furniture. She didn't remember what they would say, but it didn't matter, they were angry words, violent sounds, that made it impossible to go back to sleep. She was always too afraid to venture outside her room to see what was happening, but the next day, and many days after, mother would be too angry to visit her, leaving her with her Bryda and Fredrik. When mother's anger had waned, and she did see her eldest daughter, the girl would see an ugly purple mark somewhere on Cersei's ivory skin.

Father wasn't any better, always drinking too much, never caring if his wife could see him with his whores and once or twice, Sylvia saw him publically hit her mother, (the queen!), when she spat venom back at him. When Sylvia was with her father in his chambers, visiting him, hearing his war stories, he never said anything nice about mother. Not a word, a hint or a whisper that there was anything but bitterness and hatred between them.

Sylvia felt tears stinging her eyes, and tried desperately to blink them back, but it was no good, the tears came anyway. It shouldn't have been as nasty a blow as it was, because she had grown up in it, seen it since she could remember, and never knew anything different...until the Starks. This northern family had shown her what a man and woman were _supposed_ to feel for each other. Between her parent's marriage, and Lord and Lady Stark's marriage, the latter seemed a more pleasant one, the kind she wanted for herself, a happy union to bring her children into. But that was not what caused her distress; knowing you came from a place where the two people you loved more than anything hated each other, would make any child quite a bit upset.

A terrible, painful thought came to her then: what if her parents hated her? She came from hate so how off would it be to assume they resented her, even just a little? Sylvia sniffled, wiping her face on the sleeve of her dress.

A twig suddenly snapped, quickly drawing her attention.

A look of surprise and concern came across Robb's face as he saw Sylvia, her face wet with tears, eyes holding nothing but hurt then shock and then shame when she saw it was him.

Robb, his father, his brother and his father's ward had just come back from Torrhen's Square, and after greeting his mother, sisters and little brothers, he set off to find Sylvia. It didn't surprise him that she didn't know he had arrived back in Winterfell; the Starks didn't come and go on ordinary journeys with a lot of spectacle.

Sylvia quickly stood, embarrassed that he, _of all people_, had found her like this, blubbering like a baby. Her face coloured red, and she wanted to run and hide from his look of alarm, burry her face in the snow until he went away. Without thinking, she lifted her arm and wiped her face again, trying to get rid of the evidence of her tears and after a moment more, she turned and walked away, hoping he would just leave her be. Sadly, Robb Stark didn't leave her be. He was his father's son, and wouldn't leave a lady crying, letting whatever was troubling her bother her any longer.

"Wait!" He called, jogging to catch up to her. Sylvia didn't stop but she wasn't running, so he caught up to her easily. He caught her arm, bringing her to a halt, but she didn't look at him. "Sylvia, what's wrong? Please tell me."

The princess didn't look at him. Instead she sniffled once again, and wiped her face on her soiled dress sleeve. She didn't want to tell him. Mother said tears made you weak, and bad people would use them against you. But Robb wasn't bad at all, he would never hurt her. So she quietly raised her head, and turned toward him.

"I...L-lady Catelyn says I'm ready to be your wife." It was the quietest, most timid statement Sylvia had ever uttered in her life. It took Robb a very long moment to process her words, but when he did, he dropped her hand as though she'd burned him. A painful volt went through Sylvia's tummy, wondering if this was the beginning long years of bitterness for them.

Robb was dumbfounded; it was the last thing he'd ever expect to hear her say. Of course he knew what it meant: she'd bled, and now that she could have children, they would be married. Father told him that love grows in time, and he believed it would be very easy to love Sylvia. He didn't love her – she was his friend and when he saw her, he always saw that shy, skinny little girl that invaded his castle three years before, the one that hadn't wanted anything to do with him for a good six moons.

"Is that why you're crying? You don't want to be my wife?" Robb asked.

Sylvia's wide eyes snapped back up to his. "No! No! I-it's not that, I promise."

"Then what is it?" He asked, a tinge of irritation seeping into his voice.

She shifted again, in an awkward manor. This was almost as bad as telling him she had flowered. "I...I don't know...I don't know how to be married." Gods that sounded _stupid_! "I don't know...if I'll m-make you happy like L-lady Catelyn makes Lord S-stark, or i-if...you'll ha-hate me l-like, like..." She couldn't say it, not out loud, not yet. Sylvia hated the fresh trail of tears that made its way down her cheeks, hated her weakness, and hated her parents for causing this hurt. Sylvia sniffled and wrapped her arms around her middle, turning her head away so Robb wouldn't see her tears. Gods, why didn't she let Ser Fredrick accompany her!?

Robb backed away a little. Crying girls was not something he was familiar with, especially one he had never seen cry before. Whenever Sansa or Arya cried, they ran off, Sansa to mother and Arya to her room mostly. But in her three years at Winterfell, Robb had _never_ seen Sylvia cry, even when she cut her leg on an overturned log last year. He didn't know what to do. He just wanted her to stop, to go back to being the smiley girl he saw all the time.

He bit his lip, stepping forward a little, raising his arms to hug her.

When his stronger arms enveloped her smaller form, Sylvia turned her head back to him, and suddenly his lips were on hers, warm and soft and clumsy. She jerked back a bit, eyes wide with shock, but his lips stayed against hers, not moving, but sweet all the same.

Robb hadn't meant for it to happen, it just did. One second he was just hugging her, the next he was kissing her. He was dimly aware that her tears were wetting his cheeks as well, and that her eyes were watching him with quickly fading shock and sadness, but all he could really focus on was how soft and warm her lips were, and how good it felt to hold her. The little voice in his head, calling him a fool for just rushing into this like a dog running at a hare, grew silent as the kiss went on and Sylvia's eyes closed.

It wasn't entirely unpleasant, not for Sylvia at least. It was a nice distraction from her thoughts, and it felt very good to be so close to him. _He smells good_, Sylvia thought, _like leather and smoke and winter_. This wasn't bad, Sylvia rather liked this.

When they pulled away, both took cautionary steps back, in case the other hadn't liked it at all. Their lips still tingled from that brief moment, cheeks flushed with the shyness and elation that came after first kisses.

They awkwardly parted at the gate into Winterfell castle, both stuttering out promises to see each other the next day, and left the other blushing madly, smiling like they were on top of the world so fair.

* * *

_The next day..._

"Did you kiss me out of pity?" was Sylvia's first question the next day after lessons. Maester Luwin had just left the two in the Great Hall, both Robb and Sylvia remaining behind to steal a quiet moment together. Robb was about to take her hand in his and ask if it would be alright to kiss her again, but she spoke first, and killed the mood.

Things seemed relatively normal between them, but entirely different. It had just been a day, and Robb already felt as though he was always smiling at her, always blushing around her, always wanting to kiss her and hold her as he had the day before. He had seen Sylvia smile and blush as well, but they hadn't yet had the chance to speak about what had happened the day before. The welcome home feast held in Lord Stark and his sons' honour had quickly become too fast and rambunctious to get a quiet moment with Sylvia. The next day, Maester Luwin set them to work straight away on geography, giving them no chance to say more than a word of greeting.

Now they were finally alone, and she had to go and ask a question like _that?_ Good gods, Sylvia over thought almost everything! When they were married, he'd make it a silent mission to get her to relax.

"What?" Robb asked.

"Did you only kiss me because I was – well, you know." And she had too much pride to even admit she had been crying. Robb smiled at that, but then it disappeared as he thought for an answer.

It had been for pity when she was crying, but it had awoken something in him. He saw her differently. Not as a little girl, some girly, annoying creature that had always wanted to play rough games, but as a young lady, with a pretty smile, and a rounding figure and soft skin and sweet lips. For the first time in knowing her, Robb finally believed he saw _who_ she was, rather than _what_ she was.

But instead of saying all that, Robb only moved forward, took her small, soft hand in his, and leaned his head down. Sylvia closed her eyes again as Robb kissed her again. It was even better than last time. This time, they were in the warm castle, she wasn't blubbering, and his mouth didn't feel clumsy like it had last time. And this time their lips _moved_.

She liked this very much, and now that he kissed her again, she knew Robb did as well. Maybe this was love, maybe not, but either way, Sylvia would greatly enjoy it.

* * *

**Hello hello hello. **

**please tell me how this one was, because I wanna know if this chapter was good, or if it just let you down :(  
I am also very very sorry if this is too long or seemed rushed, but I was trying to get all necessary info in this chapter, before I move on... I am once again sorry for the wait...**

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	5. Chapter 2: The Wedding Part 1

**Chapter 2: The Wedding Prt 1: The Arrival**

_One year later..._

Sylvia stood before her mirror, admiring her image with a giddy smile that had little to do with how beautiful the image in the mirror was. Everything seemed wonderful to her today, nothing in the world could be wrong. The cold air of her chambers was crisp and refreshing, the fact that her feet already hurt from her slippers didn't bother her, and she couldn't even summon any anger when septa Maesa began to crow how proper ladies do not relish in their own beauty as she was at the moment. That wide smile never wavered from her face since she opened her eyes that morning, because today was the day her family would arrive in Winterfell.

For four _long_ years, Sylvia had not seen her family, had not heard her mother's voice nor felt her slender fingers through her hair; she had not heard her father's boisterous laughter or his powerful voice as he recounted his war days, had not played with little Myrcella, or admired the beautiful colours of Uncle Renly's wardrobe. The fact that she would, once again, made her heart all aflutter, like a child anticipating her name-day.

A knock sounded at the door. _"Lady Sylvia,"_ it was the deep voice of her sworn shield, and oldest friend, Ser Fredrik Ravenback. _"It's little Lady Sansa."_

"Send her in!" she called back. Turning from the mirror, Sylvia turned towards the door to receive her friend. A moment later, the door opened and the young girl with distinctive auburn hair glided forward. "Oh, Ser Fredrik, please come in as well." She loved her shown shield, as much as Bryda, and liked to have him close, especially now that Bryda was gone. There would be no one to replace him if he was ever gone. With a short grunt and a hidden eye roll, the old hedge knight came through the door behind Sansa, and took his place beside the door as the two little ladies prattled on over one another's dresses.

"Oh Sansa, you look so lovely!" Sylvia gushed as the auburn haired girl walked into her chambers, with all the grace of a true lady. Sansa, now twelve years old, was so beautiful and graceful, she reminded Sylvia of the troop of Myrish dancers that had arrived in King's Landing when she was almost too little to remember. Sansa wore her finest gown for the occasion: pale blue cotton with silk embroidery on the sleeves, and her mother had styled her hair in a very elegant northern style.

"Do you think so? I want to look my best for the king and queen." The younger girl blushed prettily, and Sylvia knew it wasn't just her family the auburn haired girl wanted to look her best for. Southern knights would be with her family's caravan, full of gallantry, and soft, sweet words and clad in the finest armour gold could buy. Southern knights seemed to be what the bards wrote about, and what little girls like Sansa dreamed of. She hoped some Tyrell knights were coming; from what she remembered, they were the most fashionable and beautiful of knights in all the seven kingdoms. Sansa would like that.

"Yes, you look lovely. How do I look? I fear the yellow is too glaring." Sylvia asked, clenching her fingers around her skirt. From behind Sansa, Ser Fredrik snorted. She knew very well she looked beautiful; the gown fit the curves of her hips and breasts delightfully and the yellow suited her Baratheon colouring. Sylvia simply liked to hear those words of praise. The princess shot him a look full of mischief, and turned back to Sansa, awaiting her answer.

"You look beautiful Sylvia; your gown is very pretty. I'm sure the king will love it." Sansa replied, gently tugging on the skirt of the princess' yellow dress in a friendly manner. Sylvia hoped Sansa was right. The princess had ordered the dress to be made the day the raven came from the Capitol, telling that the king and his royal convoy would be coming to Winterfell to celebrate her wedding to Robb. The onyx haired girl wanted to stand out from the others in Winterfell, apart from the grey, dim colours of the north, and her golden yellow dress assured that she did. She hoped her father approved of it; it was in their houses' colours after all.

"Thank you, Sansa." Sylvia smiled with pleasure, smoothing out the imagined wrinkles on her bodice. "Where's Arya? I haven't seen her since this morning." That seemed to be the one question everyone had asked at least once in a time. Arya, the little wildling, was supposed to keep to her sister all day, to stay out of trouble and to keep tidy for the day, but anyone who _knew_ the child, should not be so surprised when she didn't do as she was told.

Sansa gave a careless shrug. "I don't know. Probably getting her dress dirty again and getting sticks and mud in her hair. Mother will be wroth." There was a superior edge to the young girl's voice, but no one took note of it. If the little girl acted as a lady rather than a little beast, then there would be no reason for the girls of the castle to talk about Arya behind her back.

Sylvia nodded. "Well if she does get all messy, I hope she doesn't come to the greeting _at all_. I don't want her to _ruin_ it." The princess said ardently. Four years since she saw her family, and if Arya ruined it with her silliness, Sylvia wouldn't speak to her again until flowers bloomed in the moors of Winterfell.

Sansa nodded in agreement. A beat of silence and then: "Are you nervous? About seeing your family again?" Sansa suddenly asked.

Sylvia thought for just a moment, but then replied: "No not at all. They're my family; I imagine they'll be just as happy to see me as I am to see them." The princess smiled brightly at her friend and took her hand. "Come on, Sansa dear. We simply _must_ steal a lemon cake or two before the greeting." Sylvia pulled her soon to be good-sister through the door. As they skipped their way down the corridor, the princess called out, _"I'm sure Ser Fredrik won't tell on us!" _

The old former hedge knight snickered quietly to himself. He hadn't seen her this happy in quite a long time.

* * *

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

The courtyard at Winterfell's gate was filled up with people, the smallest to the highest, all dressed in their finest garb to receive the king and his royal company. Even the boys had to shave their beards and cut their hair. The king was not so far off, the thundering beat of over a hundred horses could be felt though the ground.

Just as they had four years before, when Winterfell received the princess, the Starks stood in a neat line, with Lord Eddard that the center, his lady wife to the left with their youngest child, and the rest of their children to his right, oldest to youngest. But this time, beside Robb, stood his wife-to-be, Sylvia Baratheon. The only reason she did not stand behind the noble family with Jon and the Greyjoy lad, was because of her rank and title, and because it was _her_ family coming to Winterfell.

Sylvia could feel the sweat on her palms as the steady beat of horse hooves grew closer; her belly began to feel all twisted and squirmy. It wasn't as though she dreaded her family's arrival; in fact she rather looked forward to it. But there was one boy she could go without seeing for a thousand years if she lived that long: Joffrey. He would be coming with the convoy, the awful little boy. She worried what his sharp tongue and malicious ways would do to the bit of happiness she found in the frozen north. Would he open his fat mouth and talk about what the lords and ladies of the south called her in secret? Or would he simply be miserable with the Starks as he always had been with everyone else? Would Joffrey ruin everything that she had grown for herself? The thought was horrifying.

At the corner of his eye, Robb saw his betrothed fidget under her cloak, feet shuffling nervously, blue eyes darting about. Her family's arrival had been all she could talk about the last few weeks, and she brought them up more and more as the day grew closer. She would go on about how good it would be to see her mother and father, how wonderful it would be to meet her littlest brother for the first time before she was married, and how much her little sister would adore Sansa and the glass garden and how she would show Tommen the godswood and the hot springs. And yet she looked even more nervous than she had the day she arrived in Winterfell.

Boldly, he took her hand, warm and small, in his. Gods he loved touching her. She was so beautiful and sweet and warm as the southern sun, and even in the cold, she shined as bright as anything he knew. His Sylvia looked every bit a southerner in her golden yellow dress, the curves and dips and swells of her body were made even more delightful by the gown, and when she saw the want in his eyes, she smiled and said her dress was not for him.

For the last year, they had been careful, never showing too much affection during the day so that no one knew the things they did at night. Sylvia's maidenhead remained intact; it would be foolish and dishonourable to take it away before they were married so they had never gone too far. But he would be lying if he said they hadn't done..._things_. He blushed. Robb was not ashamed of doing those things with Sylvia, especially since they had been so warm and sweet and intoxicating; but if people knew he they had gone as far that he knew what her breasts felt and looked like, and that she had more than once touched his bare skin, making him shiver in her arms, Sylvia's honor would be in shreds and they would say he had none at all. Those warm nights in his bedchamber had been well worth the risk though.

Sylvia turned her head towards him and smiled. She gave his hand a squeeze. It was sweet to know he was there, but would he be as sweet while her repulsive brother was there in the castle? She did not get the chance to ponder the question as Arya ran across the yard, her septa hot on her heels, towards the Stark family line.

_Well, at least she's not all filthy and messy,_ thought Sylvia with a bit of relief. Arya's dress and hair were intact, but by the redness of her face, and the purple of her septa's, they all knew whatever the girl had been doing was not ladylike.

Sansa almost rolled her eyes as Arya took her place between her and Bran, but she was far too gentle mannered to do that. Septa Mordane quietly took her place with the stewards, septa Maesa and Maester Luwin. The elder girl had had to put up with her sister's silliness ever since Arya ripped off her dress at two in favour of running about naked. How had they come from the same woman? They were nothing alike!

_Gods_, Sylvia prayed, _please let that be it from her, don't let her open her mouth and speak, please don't_. She didn't want her family to think all the Starks were as brazen and impudent as Arya, that they were all wild beasts with no control and that she had become one herself. It would shame her to know they thought as such.

"Oh, Arya," breathed Lady Stark. "Sansa you were supposed to keep her near." The lady hissed.

"I _tried_, she ran away too fast." The affronted twelve year old hissed back. She heard Theon stifle a laugh.

"Wonder where she was this time," Robb mused impishly to himself. She could practically _hear_ Jon and Theon smirking behind them. Sylvia was too nervous to even muster a grin.

Although troublesome, the little wildling child proved to have impeccable timing, as not even a moment later, men in armour that was not of the north, came riding through the gates. Sylvia squeezed Robb's hand once again.

She looked for the king, her father, but only saw guards in armour. They seemed smaller, less intimidating than they once were. For a moment, a flash of fear went through her, wondering if Robert had changed his mind about seeing her married. Had he? Was he still in the Red Keep knocking back cup after cup of wine? Had he chosen _that_, over his _daughter's_ wedding?! That would be very cruel and she would _never_ forgive her father for letting her get her hopes up and then just—

Just then another, much rounder man rode in, wearing no armour or helm, but leathers and cottons and silks, all under a warm cloak lined with black bear fur. For a long moment, Sylvia just stared at the man. She knew him to be her father, she would know him anywhere. She could not forget that face of his, nor his blue eyes and black hair which matched hers, but by all the gods, he had _changed_. He had gotten fatter, was the first thing she could devise. His face was rounder and redder since she last saw it, his belly peeking out from the slit of his thick cloak. His black, wiry hair now had the odd grey amongst the black strands and somehow he looked sterner. Father had never been a small man, but she had never seen him that...large before.

The princess only had a moment to study her father, before she felt the cold rush against her skin where Robb released her hand. At once she knelt beside him – the others around her already on their knees – one knee drawn up, the other on the ground, her head bowed in respect. Her long black hair fell around her face. Though he was her father, he was also her king, and even a king's daughter had to bow.

She could hear the wet crunch of gravel beneath the hooves of the horses, their whinnies and snorts, and the creak of the litter that carried ladies to delicate for horseback into the courtyard. Small feet struck down on the ground, pattering about urgently. She heard the bangle of the bridle and then two larger feet, belonging to a heavier man, stomp down on the rocks and mud. Sylvia stifled a bright smile when she heard those feet begin walking towards their line. Closer and closer her father came, until she was almost sure she could smell his familiar scent, wine and meat and sweat, on the wind.

She didn't see it, but when her father gave his approval to Lord Eddard for them all to stand, they followed without a word. It suddenly struck her how much power her father had – he could ask them to jump up and down and grovel at his feet and they would have to do it because he was the king. But he didn't do anything silly like that. Her father was a great king.

As Sylvia rose, her bright, eager eyes flashed up to her father's form, hoping he would be looking at her with approval, smiling back at her before enveloping her in a hug many years overdue. Or at least turning his head looking _for_ her, but he wasn't. He wasn't even looking about. No his eyes stared unwaveringly at Lord Eddard. The princess frowned.

"Your grace," Lord Eddard bowed a little. King Robert tilted his head a little, as if expecting more.

A moment of awkwardness filled the silent air. And then, "You've got fat." The gruff, and oh so serious remark from her father would have made Sylvia giggle from the ridiculousness of it, if she was not so confused that her father didn't even acknowledge her existence. They had not seen each other for _four_ years, and she was about to be married and locked away to the north forever...shouldn't he be swarming her with attention? Giving her praise? _Yes_, Sylvia thought, _he should be!_ _I am his first born, and I am the one getting married, and even Lord Eddard – one of the most serious men in the world – coddles his daughters on their name-days._ Name-days happen every year. You only get married _once._

To be fair, she knew, he mayhaps didn't recognise her. She had grown breasts and hips and had gotten taller, so maybe he didn't realise she was there in front of him. But who else would be wearing a Baratheon gold dress, standing next to Robb? Which of the Stark's had black hair? Even if he didn't see her, shouldn't' he be asking for her? Wasn't that what fathers did when they saw their child for the first time after a long while, embrace them? But then again, her father had never been an affectionate man.

Lord Eddard gave a sly nod down to the king's distended belly, and both broke out into joyful laughter. As the two men embraced after seven years of being apart, Sylvia couldn't help but feel envious of Robb's father. He got the attention from Robert she craved so badly.

"Cat!" Robert exclaimed gruffly at Lady Catelyn, pulling her into a hug as well. He tussled little Rickon's hair and turned back to Lord Eddard to exchange a few words. Sylvia heard none of it. Instead she looked away, silently growing more and more frustrated as each moment passed by.

This was not the welcome she had imagined _at all. _

* * *

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Queen Cersei stepped out of the litter last, after her ladies and handmaidens, and out into the frozen courtyard of Winterfell. She flinched. Gods, what kind of cold waste did Robert condemn Sylvia to? Why couldn't he have just married her to one of Kevan's sons, or Aunt Genna's? At least then she would have lived her life in the west, where it was warm, and safe.

She hardly listened as Robert greeted the northerner, some grim looking man, with enough children to make a bitch proud. Instead, she held back a moment and let Robert say his words. Out of instinct, she looked for her brother, her beautiful golden brother, and when she found him in the crowds, standing by his horse in his armour and white cape, just a few paces beside her husband's horse, she felt a tug of want in her belly. She wanted to be as close to him as possible, have him surround her, fill her, and become one with him so no one could ever tear them apart again. She wondered if Sylvia would have felt this for Steffon had he lived.

The lioness turned away. No one could ever know; not even her and Jaime's children. Not ever and if anyone did find out, she would kill them. A lioness must protect her pride.

The courtyard was filled to the brim with people, and most of them were men and women of the Stark's household. Most of the royal convoy had not even made it past the gates of Winterfell. Many lords and ladies had accompanied their party, picked up along their journey north; a handful of Storm's End lords marched with them to honor the king, and theirs was the largest group that came with them. Lord Cafferen and his young sons, Lord Errol with his fat wife and babes, Ser Cortnay Penrose who had come in the place of his sick and ailing father, and softheaded Lord Fell with his wife and daughters. Renly Baratheon had also come with them, the simple minded little girl. Cersei had never liked him. Stannis had decided to remain in the Capitol for whatever reason. Would that Renly had remained there as well.

Mace Tyrell, his crippled son Willas and his girly faced son Ser Loras had come too, with a few Redwyne and Hightower squires trailing along behind them. Of course a few Frey weasels would come, old Walder Frey had enough children that they were almost everywhere in the kingdoms, attending every event in the hopes of making friends with the right people. Edmure Tully, brother of Catelyn Stark, hadn't come, their father was sick and so Blackfish Tully had come, representing both the Arryn's and Tully's, along with men and boys from houses Mallister, Blackwood and Piper.

None of the Martell's had come to attend the wedding, claiming one of their family members had come down with some fever and none would travel whilst they were on death's doorstep. Everyone knew it was a lie, but Cersei was glad they were not there. They called themselves suns but really, they were snakes hiding in the grass. Finally, her uncle Kevan Lannister, and his sons Lancel and Willem rode with them, as well as her cousin Tyrek and her grotesque little brother, the Imp. Gods knew he was probably whoring somewhere and disgracing their name further. Lords, ladies and lesser knights from houses Brax, Swyft and Westerling came with her family's party.

All together, over three hundred southerners had come to attend Princess Sylvia and young Lord Robb's wedding.

She looked across the crowd for her daughter, hoping that despite the years apart, she would know what she looked like. How had Sylvia grown? Was she clever or still as strange as she was when she left her? Was she beautiful or gangly or graceful or clumsy? Was she gentle and proper as Myrcella, or as timid and sweet as Tommen? She knew she wouldn't be like Joff, the girl was too weak for that. Sylvia followed orders, but never made them...or did she give orders now? Cersei knew none of it, not a thing, not a scrap...not anymore. All she had left of her child was an unbreakable bond with her, and the memory of the love that once engulfed her whole, before the pain of loss scarred and distanced it forever.

The queen despised her _royal_ husband for giving their daughter to some cold strangers in the snow, kin to his beloved rotted corpse, Lyanna. Robert had sold Sylvia to the Starks just to spite her, she was sure of it. This betrothal was a means to hurt her further, by marrying her child to the family of one of the ghosts who haunted her marriage. And it worked. It hurt her, not that she'd ever let him know it. Her lecherous, drunken husband had seen too many of her tears already, she wouldn't let him see anymore.

Stranger's faces with bleak, ugly clothing greeted her when she emerged from her litter. Their faces were more familiar to Sylvia than anyone from the south, including her own family. That stung. What the queen feared more than anything, was finding out that she had lost her firstborn daughter to these people, much like she had lost Robert, if it could be said she _ever_ had him at all. Sylvia was hers; she had carried her in her belly, felt her and her brother kick and move. She brought her forth with blood and pain, and nursed her from her breast for however brief a time. She was due more love and trust than the Starks from Sylvia. Cersei had lost Steffon, her sweet boy, very long ago to a cause which she could not control. She would not loose Sylvia, not when she could keep her, at least even at arm's length.

Cersei stepped forward a second later, eyes still searching the crowd, almost thinking Sylvia would still be the tiny little eleven year old she was when she left her, not a woman grown and about to be wed.

Almost at once bright yellow caught her eye, and Cersei saw her. Robert was not looking at her, not even after all these years, the bastard, but as the queen glided forward with perfect grace, Sylvia came into view from behind one of the kingsguard's horses. For a moment, the queen could not think. All she could do was take in the detail of her face, the same, yet so different.

Her hair had gotten longer; so long that she could tell when it was perfectly down the tips would kiss the tops of her hips. It was the same deep, night black Robert's had been when she first wed him. Cersei felt her gut clench. She should have been born with golden hair. Her little black haired doe had gotten taller, her figure much more rounded than it was as a child (thank the gods); her features had matured in her time away, as well, cheekbones more defined, nose longer, cheeks a little less full and round...she had grown so much. She wasn't a little girl anymore.

That was her daughter, her first, daughter. Cersei wanted to rush up to her and hold her to her breast, and never let go again, but at the same time, she wanted to turn around and retreat back to King's Landing to be with her sweet golden cubs. _Our children will be safer when she is gone and married. _Jaime's words from long ago still held that heavy truth.

But how would Steffon look, she wondered absently as she took in her daughter's fine face, ink black hair and blue eyes. Would they have the same face with only the tiny differences of a man and woman? Would they have been like her and Jaime? Would things be just the same as they are now? Would Robert love her? Endless, painful questions she would never know the answer to. They would have driven her mad if she was a lesser woman.

As she approached closer, and tore her eyes away from Sylvia, it was only then she realized the distressed look on her child's face.

* * *

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Sylvia's hard blue eyes snapped back up to her father as he turned to Robb. He looked even more different than he had far afar. Robert was so close now, she could smell the sour smell of wine on him, and see the lines on his face. Her heart beat hard in her breast, the excitement of seeing her father once again was still fresh, even though she was a bit put off by his aloofness. The smile returned to her face, bright and eager and wanting to please, but still his eyes never strayed to her. Robb stared back at her father, jaw set, back straight, looking every bit the proud lord he would one day be. Her heart fluttered with pride for her betrothed.

"You must be Robb." Father grunted out, tightly clutching Robb's hand in what she assumed was to be an intimidating manner. Robb didn't even flinch. "How old are you, boy?"

"_Where's the Imp?"_ Arya asked with badly hidden discreatness.

"_Would you shut up?"_ Sansa hissed at her, saving Sylvia the trouble.

"Six-and-ten, Your Grace," Robb replied. He hated that, being called boy. Sylvia knew he did. That utterance – made in either jest or as a statement, simple and true– made Robb's ears burn with annoyance as though he had been called a foul name. It sparked a need to prove _everyone_ he wasn't a boy, but a man. But Robb _was_ green, he was a boy; anyone with age worn eyes could see he was, young and foolish and filled with the need to be respected and loved. He was just a boy who only played a being a man.

The king grunted. "I remember being that age; is my daughter still honest, boy?" Now Sylvia wished with everything she had, that she hadn't been acknowledged at all, at least not by her overbold father, who asked such questions. She heard people, lords and their sons, knights and squires, laugh across the vast yard.

"_Oh, there's Jaime Lannister, the queen's twin! He's the greatest swordsman in the kingdoms, you know? __**And**__ he's Sylvia's uncle."_ Arya chripped again, not even noticing her brother's distress.

"_Would you __**please**__, shut up?"_ Sansa hissed at her again.

Robb faltered. His eyes widened at the implication, and for a moment, he was terrified one of the servants had found out about the intimate things he and Sylvia did at night, and had somehow gotten word to her father. Robert stared at him, his stern face suddenly making Robb uncomfortable. He stifled the urge to look at Sylvia, knowing her face would be as red his, but he couldn't take comfort from her in front of her father. A man has to stand on his own, at least by day. Robb opened his mouth to reply, but his lord father beat him to it.

"Stop torturing the poor boy. He's to be your goodson in just a few days." Sylvia loved Lord Eddard dearly then. "To question my son and your daughter's honour so publically is demeaning."

Her father broke into laughter, deep and jovial. He clapped Robb on the shoulder. "Peace, Ned." Robert tittered though his mirth. He turned to Robb again, delight still shining in his eyes. "Just remember, I can still swing a hammer, boy." Robb smiled back at the king's good-natured threat, giving not the barest hint that there was any discomfort behind it.

Then Robert turned to Sylvia. Her father's eyes narrowed slightly and lost some of their amusement, but she knew he was only studying her. His stare was so intense she wanted to shrink under it. Sylvia didn't know what she should do, or if there was anything _to_ do. Father was a difficult man to read: sometimes he would be pleased by what she did or said, but other times, when she said or did things she thought would please him, he would respond negatively, hurting her feelings and keeping her cautious around him until the next time he was happy with her. But a princess never stumbles in front of her people, septa Bryda had taught her, they take whatever surprise they are given with grace and dignity.

"Hello father," she curtsied, making sure to be as straight and go as deeply as she could. When she rose, Robert was watching her differently – less contemplative, and more warmly. His face was still not as kind as it had been when he greeted Lord Stark, though.

"Sylvia," the king grinned as he lifted a large meaty hand and rested it on her shoulder. She smiled brightly back at her father. "You've grown, child." Yes, finally he would give her notice, and affection. He would speak of how much she had grown and how proud he was of her, and how she would make a good wife and lady of the north and—

"We'll have words later." Her father lifted his big warm hand. He turned to Lord Eddard, his face hardening. "Ned, take me to your crypts, I want to pay my respects." Sylvia made to hide her surprise, but it was impossible after so sudden a dismissal.

"We've been riding for a month, my love," the queen said tightly. Sylvia looked up at her mother, joy coming once again at seeing her. "Surely the dead can wait." It wasn't so surprising that he would leave her alone to visit that corpses' tomb, but even after years of disappointment, cruel words and even crueler actions, it was still as sharp an embarrassment as it was the first time.

The king ignored his queen, and called once again, "Ned!" before turning away and stalking towards the entrance to the black crypts under Winterfell's castle. Lord Eddard followed a brief moment later.

The princess looked up at her mother, and smiled when the queen looked back at her. The tight line of Cersei's lips twitched a little. The queen turned and strode to her estranged daughter, her face the perfect mask of deception. She had been fooling people for years, played the blushing bride, the doting wife, the kind, stupid queen...now she played the mother, happily meeting her child once again. It was one of the easier fronts to put up, because there was some truth to the lie.

"Sylvia, my dear." Cersei greeted, her smooth voice making Sylvia smile brighter. At least her mother was very happy to see her. As the queen and her daughter studied one another, Lady Catelyn said hello to her uncle Blackfish, and his party, ushering stewards forward to show them their chambers.

"Mother," once again Sylvia curtsied. When she rose, Cersei stepped closer and took her daughter's gloved hands in her own. This was very strange. It was never this hard with her other children, with Joff. Queen Cersei loved all her children – fiercely, unendingly, without question and gods strike down any man who questioned that– but all in different ways. Loving Sylvia was entirely different from loving Joff because loving _him_ didn't hurt, it didn't feel like betraying Jaime for her bastard husband. But she loved Sylvia anyway.

"You _have_ grown, my sweet." Cersei commented. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against her daughter's brow quickly. "What a lovely dress – Baratheon gold...you did not think to add a bit of crimson?" Sylvia's smile faded.

"N-no, mother." she replied slowly. Truly she hadn't. Baratheon was her sigil, not a lion. Why would she wear her mother's colours?

Cersei noted it for later. "It is gorgeous, Sylvia, such beautiful fabric. A fine choice for today." Sylvia's smile returned. "Come, we have much to discuss. Show me to my quarters, and we'll talk."

Sylvia nodded and turned to show her mother to her rooms, lifting her skirts a little as she walked through the Stark's household, the crowd of them parting to make way for the two royals. After they passed the arch leading into the Guest House, she asked, "Mother, where is Myrcella and Tommen? I would very much like to see them."

Cersei paused only a moment before replying, her tone gentle and kind, but with a hint of something else beneath it. "_Joffrey_, Myrcella and Tommen remained in the Capitol. I didn't want them to travel the roads. It's too dangerous for children, and it's too long a journey for Tommen. He's just a babe."

Sylvia's heart sunk down to her belly. Then as the reality of it really struck her, her heart sunk down past her knees and onto the floor.

* * *

**Sweet gods, to me this chapter seems...bleh...and I feel SO bad for it :'( But I also feel, stuff must be laid down first, foundation for the future as it is...please tell me what you thought about this chapter - Good, bad, ugly, what have you. Tell me where I could improve, tell me where I am doing alright...:D **

**Thank you sooooooooo sooooooo much for all your reviews :D :D :D I love you guys...like really love you :) **

**I'm soo close to finishing the next chapter...please leave a comment ;D**


	6. Chapter 3: The Wedding Part 2

**DISCLAIMER: I own squat didly**

**Chapter 3: The Wedding Part 2**

_A bear there was, a bear, a bear!__  
__All black and brown and covered with hair!__  
__Oh, come, they said, oh come to the fair!__  
__The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear!__  
__All black, and brown, and covered with hair!_

Bards didn't stay long in Winterfell, most finding it too cold and others moving on for better prospects in the south. But for their wedding, seven had come to Winterfell on their own, and another six came with her family's party, looking for gold and looking for purchase. It was a rare treat that singers came, and when they did, Sylvia listened happily to the songs they sang from the faraway places they'd been. It reminded her of the Capitol, where the court had never lacked for any singers or fools, and it was nice to have some new entertainment in the castle.

These bards did not croon any tales of valiant and heroic deeds or funny little incidents between lords and ladies. No, tonight, all the songs were love songs, sung soft and sweet, because it was Robb Stark and Sylvia Baratheon's wedding day, a long anticipated union between the two prestigious houses, one that called for nothing less than all the extravagance the north could ever offer, paid for by her family, as was the custom.

The godswood was such a sight, lanterns hung up in the trees, an old custom of the northerners to ward off evil spirits a thousand years old from the Long Night. The Great Hall was decorated with evergreen branches and blue winter roses, bringing a bit of colour to the dreary castle. The cooks had prepared a fine meal of boar stuffed with roasted onions and garlic, venison stewed in buttered carrots, beets, celery, and wine, roasted chicken with garlic and mushrooms, and roasted wild turkey, steaming in hot juices. The long tables were covered with mashed turnips, pigeon pies, pumpkin soups, roasted vegetables and countless cups of wine and ale and mead—enough to feed every lord and their men who had come to Winterfell to celebrate.

As the cooks slaved away in the kitchens, Sylvia got ready with the assistance of her mother, Lady Catelyn, Sansa and (to a lesser extent) Arya. Today, Sylvia was happy. She was about to be married to a good, kind-hearted man who she believed in and adored, and even though the north wouldn't have been her first choice – _if she had one_ – she couldn't imagine herself anywhere else. But instead of Myrcella helping her get ready, instead of her own _sister_ asking for details of the wedding night in the morning, she only had Robb's sisters. They were her friends, but they were not her blood, she hadn't known them as long as her golden haired sister. She didn't know Tommen, but he was still her brother. She wished they were both here with her. Not Joffrey though. Joffrey could bugger himself with a mace.

The elder of the Stark sisters was all aflutter around the queen, gentle compliments coming from her to be received with kind warmth from Cersei that no one realised was feigned. The younger girl was polite, but did not speak more than she had to knowing if she opened her mouth, she would disrespect the queen and mother would _not_ be pleased.

Sylvia looked down at herself, at her dress. It was ivory lace with pearls and silk, a red gem gleaming beautifully at the center of the neckline. It was the perfect dress...for a southern girl. She was a southern girl, born and raised in the Capitol, a princess; but she was a northern bride, marrying a northman. Shouldn't she wear something more...appropriate? She and Catelyn had overseen the making of her dress, simple, warm and elegant; she had thought it was perfect. It had had cotton underskirts, and a silk overdress, embroidered with light blue and dark green flowers on the bust and sleeves. She would have worn a dark blue under bust and the neckline had plunged deep to the tops of her breasts and the clips which would hold her maiden's cloak were to be silver stag's antlers. Simple, but the north was a simple, untwisted place so it fit.

But the moment her mother arrived and she set eyes on the northern style gown her daughter would wear on her wedding day, she presented another dress entirely. "You're a princess," she had said, laying the delicate gown on her bed. "Everyone expects nothing but the best of you. You don't want to marry your Stark boy looking plain and common, do you? A princess must always look her finest, and this dress is far finer on you than the other."

It was such a beautiful dress: ivory silk with a flowery brocade. It closed in the front like her dressing gown, tied with a long red satin ribbon. The collar was stitched with a delicate design of Dornish lace and the sleeves were slit open from the wrist to the curve of her shoulder, exposing her arm to the cold air. Mother had had it made for her, it was a gift...and it would probably be years and years before she ever wore anything so elaborate again. It would make mother happy to see her wear it. So Sylvia put her northern dress aside, and donned the silk and lace gown Cersei had brought her. She felt cold standing in it.

"Do I look like a bride?" she asked, looking at Cersei in the mirror. It was the prettiest, most elaborate thing she'd worn since leaving King's Landing; the northerners would call it impractical, maybe even provocative, but Robb would think it beautiful on her.

Her mother smiled at her and nodded, clasping her hands together in front of her gown. She was beautiful, Sylvia thought, dressed in a light blue silk dress with golden thread designing a beautiful pattern onto the fabric, a heavy fox fur pelt draped around her shoulders to shield the queen from the cold.

Cersei regarded her daughter carefully. She had kept true to her promise, she came to see her wed, something she now regretted. Sylvia as a woman grown, flowered and about to be wed to some boy Cersei had never met...what good was it to get reattached to her if she Cersei couldn't take her back? She had wanted to remain in King's Landing, not wanting to leave her children and refusing to bring them north, but people would talk if she wasn't in attendance to her eldest child's wedding. The last time she saw Sylvia, she had been eleven, small and frightened, holding back tears as she said goodbye. Now, she was fifteen, a woman, a bride blushing in her wedding dress, all smiles and happiness at the new journey she was about to begin. This girl was more a stranger.

Cersei used to have a daughter with black hair, a child that talked at nothing and sang songs she made up...but she had grown up without her, and now Cersei didn't know if she _had_ a black haired daughter anymore. Could this black haired girl, this stranger daughter of hers, be the Stark's creature? Could she pose a threat to her and her golden lion cubs? Would she one day have to choose between her black haired daughter, and her golden haired children? The queen banished the thought from mind. Even though her daughter would belong to the Stark's, Sylvia would never betray her.

The queen watched carefully as Sylvia fussed over every little wrinkle in her gown. At first she hadn't been very enthusiastic about the gown, but that quickly changed. She knew her mother was right.

For a moment, just a brief instant, the lioness remembered the day she had been in Sylvia's place: eager, half in love with an idea, hopeful...foolish, young, and _stupid_. The tender spot in her heart for her eldest ached just a little, proving that even through the distance of time and the unfamiliarity of years spent apart, the love was still there. With it came the worry for her child's wellbeing. The queen wished she could tell her daughter that whatever she felt for the Stark boy wasn't love—that she didn't even know what it _was, _what it_ meant _to love someone—she wanted to tell Sylvia to guard herself from the disappointment this boy would bring her. But she held her tongue. Maybe Sylvia wasn't hers to protect anymore.

From behind Cersei, Sansa smiled sweetly and nodded. "You look beautiful." Sylvia's grin (which had not come off since she opened her eyes that morning) widened into a smile as she pulled at the layers of skirts under her dress, enjoying them fluttering around her legs.

"You look beautiful, Sylvia dear." Lady Catelyn complimented, coming forward to brush rest her hands on her good-daughter's shoulders. "Robb will have trouble staying up when he sees you. He's already so nervous, poor boy." Catelyn grinned. She was so very happy for her son; not only was her marrying one of the most sought after girls in the kingdoms, he actually _loved_ her as well. Many were not so fortunate to have two such sought after attributes in their matches. Would that she could make sure all her children had such opportunity.

Sylvia giggled. "I hope _I_ can stay up – I hope I can _speak_ – I'm so nervous." She wrung the crimson sash around her waist anxiously.

"You shouldn't be," Cersei interjected before Catelyn could reply. "Simple words with simple meaning is all you'll have to say. Quite uncomplicated really." Catelyn turned back to Sylvia and gave a warm smile, a little forced after the queen's words.

A while later, after her mother had left to do whatever she did and Lady Catelyn had gone to see over final wedding details, Sansa sat complaisantly as a maid twisted and twirled her hair into perfection. Arya fidgeted boredly by the fire, minding her mother's warnings not to dirty her dress, as Sylvia slowly twirled a winter rosebud between her fingers, frowning down at the little thing in thought.

As the maid began to bind the ends of the braids in Sansa's hair, the auburn haired girl asked, "Are you nervous...about...about the bedding?"

Sylvia halted her movements and turned to the blushing twelve year old. It was not a question she had expected, especially from Sansa, the girlish, well-bred little lady.

"No," she answered right away, running the soft, unopened petals of the rose against her cheek. "Well...maybe a little." Sylvia admitted. Many years later, it would not be the glamour of the wedding feast nor the ceremony or even the dress she wore that she would remember most, they would be small things compared to the first time she and Robb shared a bed.

Secretly, many times she had thought of it, wondered what it would be like, feeling delightfully wicked to think things that ladies supposedly never thought. When she flowered, sour septa Maesa warned her it would hurt, but what did she know? She was a septa, she had never been with a man. But Sylvia would. The idea made her feel very grown. She already liked kissing Robb, liked it when he touched and kissed her breasts and nipped at her neck, she liked having him close, and the bedding would be just as good...probably even better. Her ears were not so innocent that she didn't know what a tumbling sounded like. Theon and his women were usually quite loud.

A smile graced her lips; she stood up from the chair and skipped over to Sansa, giddy as a little girl. She grabbed the startled twelve year olds hands in hers, pulling her from the maid before she could slip the decorative comb into Sansa's auburn locks.

"But tonight, dear Sansa," Sylvia pulled her new good sister up from the chair and began to dance, moving her feet merrily underneath her skirts, twirling the surprised child slowly as she spoke, voiced dripping with happiness sweet as honey. "Tonight I will no longer be a _girl_. I'll be a _woman, _a true honest woman, and enjoy all the things that that entitles." They twirled once again, this time together, laughter in Sylvia's voice. "Drink as much wine as I want at feasts; sleep next to Robb without anyone whispering about us; I'll even be able to go off alone with him without that old crone or Fredrik to accompany us. I'll be a wife, and wives are allowed to be with their husbands."

Laughter bubbled inside the two girls and they began to giggle, Arya turned around and watched from her chair with a gleeful smile.

* * *

Robert Baratheon hated ceremony, let any god, man, woman or child be witness to that. He hated the pomp; he hated the formality, and especially hated all the high born shits suckering up to him, trying to get at _his_ honey pot. He hated anything that had nothing to do with the true pleasures of life. But here he was, in the north for some over elaborate ceremony for his eldest daughter and Ned's boy. Why couldn't they just go before a septon, and be done with it?

But for once, Robert kept what was on his mind, off of his tongue. If only for the sake of his daughter. He didn't understand the need to be careful with her, he never felt like this with the other three, even Myrcella. He didn't mind much when they came to visit him, but words were few between him and his children, few and meaningless.

They held no interest for him, they were Cersei's, in look and in character. Robert had no hand in raising them, so everything they were, was because of that blonde pest Jon Arryn saw fit to curse him with. Sylvia looked like him, black haired, blue eyed, sweet and gentle natured, but she was stubborn and determined. In infant years of his marriage to that blonde pest, there had been no comparison to how he felt looking at his two, legitimate children, a boy and girl. Robert had no foolish idea that he could ever forget about Lyanna, but those two children had been _something_.

A man has his bastards, but he knows they can never amount to what he wants them to be, so eventually he leaves them. Then he has his true-borns, the ones he can place all his hopes and pride onto. Then over in just a week, half his true-borns were gone, _the boy no less_. That loss took almost as much of him as the loss of Lyanna. Every hope he had for his successor died that night with Steffon and Robert could never find it in him to care for another child of his, not out of carefully heeded fear that he would one day be hurt once more, mind you, but rather all the affection, joy and fatherly love had been drained from the king, left only in small fragments which swelled into hallow pits when he drank his wine.

Sylvia vaguely reminded him of what it was to be happy, because once upon a time, she had brought him much joy. He stood by her now as she fidgeted with her dress, about to give her to the north. How time had passed so quickly. He remembered when she was just a pudgy little thing still finding her feet.

Robert liked to eat and drink and whore, he didn't much like fathering or have much affection for them, but that didn't mean he cared _nothing_ for his children...well, except for Joffrey. That boy wasn't..._right_.

Sylvia the eldest was getting married to a Stark at fifteen. She was going to have children of her own soon enough. He remembered the time, she had been too little to remember—barely more than three years old—she had toddled around his apartments, getting into everything. Upon his orders, Cersei brought the girl to his chambers with her septa so that he may see her. His first thought at seeing his girl walking beside her septa was "when had she found her feet?" And when she saw his hammer— the same one he had used to crush Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate in— he picked it up and held it high in the air for her to marvel at and set it down on the floor. She tried to damndest to pick up the bloody thing herself, but it never moved. When her feet began to slide on the stone floor, he took pity on her and nudged the thing with his foot, making her stumble back harmlessly on her bottom. She looked so surprised, so giddy. He could never forget her babyish scream of delight, clapping as though she had just conquered the world.

The king looked at his daughter, watching as she twisted the red sash around her waist anxiously. Yes, time had changed.

"Lady Stark says it's time, your grace, my lady." A steward reported to them. Sylvia released a shuttering breath and linked arms with her father, both feeling a little awkward at the unfamiliar contact. Gods she felt tiny next to him.

Robert said nothing, and only patted her hand. That meant more to her than any false assurance even though she could smell the wine on him. Sylvia held her tongue—her father was a seasoned warrior so her fears of shaming herself in front of every lord in the north would make him laugh. The king turned and watched as his child fidgeted and squirmed nervously. She brushed her hair back and pulled the edges of her maiden's cloak around her further, the hair on her arms standing straight. Robert shook his head. Why had Cersei made her wear that bloody scrap of clothing? Girl must be half frozen. "Father?"

"Hm?"

"Do I look..._adequate?_" she asked timidly. Robert looked down at his daughter, briefly taking in her fine features, her black hair, and extravagant gown. Gods if he knew what women considered adequate! She looked good enough in his opinion, cold and fidgety, but she didn't look ugly.

"You look good, girl. Now let's get this done." With that, the two began to walk out from the trees which hid her from her intended's view, and into the dry open grassy clearing before the weirwood tree.

Tradition said the father was supposed to escort his daughter down the stairs of the sept, give her to her husband-to-be and let the septon do his work. Weddings in the north were no different in that respect, but they would not swear before some oily "godly" man as in the south, instead they would swear before the weirwood tree in Winterfell. The north kept to the old gods, and their gods lived in the forest, the ground, the rocks, the water, the air and animals. So natural and peaceful a faith never called for over extravagance or riches or some big temple. The Old Way of the north only saw fit that the boy and his bride make promises of eternal love and devotion before the heart-tree.

Sylvia's legs trembled beneath the too-thin layers of her skirt. Gathered about the godswood was every lord and noble family, who had come to Winterfell, all scattered about. Her mother, uncles and the Stark children with their mother (and even Jon Snow) stood closest to the heart-tree, before the black-watered hot spring.

Her heartbeat fast in her chest, and only beat harder when she saw Robb standing there waiting for her on the other side of the pond. He looked so handsome, his hair was cut and combed and he was shaved, which made him actually _look_ sixteen. But what really made her heart jump for joy was how happy _he_ looked. He was smiling, joy was clear as water in his beautiful river blue eyes, and he was looking at _her_ like that, no one else. Seeing Robb standing there waiting for her, calmed her some, because no matter what happened tonight, no matter what silly embarrassment she imagined herself getting into that night, none of it would matter in the end. She was going to be his wife, he would be her husband. She would be _his_, and he would be _hers _and they would stand by each other no matter what.

Her young heart believed such things would be so easy. They always are when things are sweet.

Her father let go of her at the edge of the pond, going to stand by her mother without so much as a second glance at her. It didn't really bother her as much as she'd thought it would. Lifting her skirts a little she walked around the black pool and joined Robb on the other side, an uncontrollable smile stretched across her face. Immediately he took his larger warm hand in hers and smiled back in earnest.

"Thank you, your highnesses, my lords and ladies, for coming." Lord Eddard began to speak, relaying words of thanks to those who had come to celebrate with them, and thanking the royals for readying such a match between their children. It was northern tradition that the head of the household direct them through the ceremony since the gods could not, until it came time to swear their vows. The Warden of the North took a roll of cloth from his lady life and walked back around the pond to the couple, still speaking.

The bride and groom faced the heart-tree's red, bleeding eyes, as Lord Eddard really began, coming to stand in front of them.

"I, Eddard of House Stark, Warden of the North, do see these two hearts bound together in the sight of the Old Gods, and the noble men of the north." Lord Eddard looked to Robb and gave a subtle nod.

Robb unfastened her maiden's cloak, his fingers fumbling a little as he flicked open the clasps, and when he pulled the new cloak in his family's colors around her shoulders. When her new cloak was in place, Robb and Sylvia lifted their still entwined fingers as Lord Eddard unravelled the bit of cloth. "I see them bound together as one, husband and wife, for this day, and all days to come to them." Lord Eddard began to tie their hands together, wrapping and twisting the strip around their hands, and then tying it gently at their wrists. "What the gods bind here together today, let no man tear asunder. Say the words." He ordered.

Lord Eddard stepped back and Robb and Sylvia turned to one another. It was almost like seeing him in an entirely different way. This was going to be the face she awoke to every morning, the one who would father her children, and take comfort from when she needed it. She took in his features, he was no longer smiling but his eyes were still bright and happy. He looked serious, prepared...ready.

What they'd had before was different from this; that had been shallow and petty, a child's love for something new and exciting. But this was deeper; it was heavier and more meaningful. They could feel it in the air, in their bound hands and in their hearts. The queen had been wrong. These were not just simple words, not to Sylvia, not to Robb. Not to anyone who intended to be true to their vows.

Together, they spoke the words they practiced in private may times before.

"Before the eyes of my gods, and my kin, I swear my love to you for now and always. I promise to give you children and to be true and faithful to you all my days. I vow to never part from you, and from this moment, until my last, I will love you. With this kiss I pledge my love."

When Robb's lips touched down to hers, a cheer rose up in the godswood, but neither of them heard.

* * *

"I don't want to look at him," Sylvia murmured to Robb as her father laughed drunkenly with some fat whore in his lap. "He's gotten even more embarrassing now that he's older." She vaguely remembered his past embarrassments, but none of them hurt so much as they did now. "How could he do this on our _wedding_ day?"

Robb took her hand in his, leaning in close so no one would hear their words. "Because he's drunk, he probably doesn't know what he's doing." He was just as disgusted by her father as she, and had he been another man, Robb would have thrown him out of the Hall himself. But Robert was the _king_, and even a drunkard king humiliating his daughter at her own wedding couldn't be thrown from the Hall.

Sylvia grimaced helplessly, looking out at the hall where dozens of merry lords and ladies drank and sang and danced. It felt as though all their eyes were on here, whispering about her drunken father and his whores. "Why couldn't he have just given us this _one_ day? Just one."

It bothered Robb a great deal to see the distress on his wife's – gods that word sounded fresh and sweet to him now – face. Would that he could throw her drunken father out of the feast himself, just to see her smile again, but he couldn't. He could only make her forget about it since it was far too early for them to retire. "Syl," he whispered to her. The young bride blinked, and pulled her eyes away from her father, turning to her husband. Her eyes were ashamed, and all he wanted to do was make it go away. "Come and dance with me."

Sylvia was a bit surprised by the sudden question that wasn't really a question, but stood with him anyway, and walked out onto the floor.

Tyrion Lannister drained the last mouthful of wine from his cup, grimacing as the sour swill made its way into his belly. The northerners had piss poor wine, he thought. But it was strong enough to make him feel warm.

The little lord looked across the Hall at the writhing bodies in the crowd, spying his _sweet_ sister and Lord Stark's lady wife at the head of the table on the dais. He noticed his niece and her new husband's disappearance from the center. For a second he wondered if they had sneaked off to consummate their marriage, but looking out on the dance floor, he knew it was not nearly so interesting. His young, onyx haired niece twirled about the floor in her husband's arms, looking much happier than she had since the feast began. It was not difficult to grasp what had her looking so upset; he could hear King Robert's drunken laughter and his vulgar remarks to the woman in his lap as good as any of them.

He could understand the impulse. If he was married to Cersei, he would be into his cups every hour of everyday too and stick his prick into every woman he came across. But not on his daughter's marriage day.

The dwarf poured himself another cup. He was happy for his niece, and wished that just for once, Robert suppressed his instincts for a night, for the daughter he never saw. Sylvia was a sweet girl, none of the malice of her mother in her heart, and she didn't deserve such shame on her wedding day.

Tyrion had been fifteen when Sylvia was born, as old as she was now. He had still been a prisoner at Casterly Rock, refused from touring the Free Cities like his cousins and instead forced to manage the sewers at the Rock. He didn't see his niece until she was three.

When he did meet her, he was dumbstruck to find she was black haired and that Jaime had nothing kind to say about the toddler. She was Robert's and not Jaime's. He would have thought that his sister would have been stupid enough to get rid of any child Robert got on her out of spite, but there was proof saying otherwise, gurgling in his face and trying to chew his fingers. Looking at Cersei's litter now, he could truly say he was relieved. Cersei got lucky with Tommen and Myrcella turning out as they did, and doubted it would ever happen again. Three out of four apples was better than half a rotten bunch.

"Enjoying the festivities, Imp?" A smirking voice chirped to his left. Tyrion turned at the voice, finding Renly Baratheon half stumbling towards him, looking mildly rumpled, from either the dancing or some brief rut with the Knight of the Flowers. Tyrion smirked to hide his ire at the comment.

"I'm enjoying my wine, my lord." He replied, lifting his cup. "I'm afraid my skills on my feet aren't half as good as my skills off them."

Renly laughed as he sat down a short ways away from him, grabbing up a cup of ale. "Oh really? I've heard of your skill and let me tell you it's not something worth boasting about."

"I am worth speaking of, though, it seems," Tyrion smirked. That jab didn't bother him as much as the first. What would Renly know of pleasing a woman? "Tell me, Lord Renly, how many women boast of your skills from here to Dorne?"

The man sobered immediately, scratching the loose laces of his doublet absently. "Plenty." He finally replied, quiet and unsure.

"Many pretty chestnut haired girls from the Reach, I imagine." Renly was quiet after that. Everyone knew Renly preferred the male form to a woman's. Everyone but Robert (although Tyrion was sure he had his suspicions) knew it, but no one dared acknowledged it. Tyrion truly didn't care what Renly liked in bed, but he would use it against the man if needed.

They sat in silence a while, drinking, picking at the remnants of the meal on the table, watching the bride and groom dance with countless lords and ladies. Tyrion wondered why Renly didn't go away and find better company, but when he spoke he realised.

"She truly is beautiful today isn't she?" Renly remarked with pure sincerity as he watched his favorite niece laugh as the Greatjon Umber pushed her around the dance floor. This was the best spot to watch her; everywhere else obscured the view, even from the dais, but here they could Sylvia Stark clearly.

"Yes she is." Tyrion agreed watching her as well. Well, at least they could agree on something.

"You know they still talk about her in the south, not as much but enough to still be heard sometimes." Renly remarked bitterly, taking another gulp of his ale. The ale made his tongue loose, and he confided in Tyrion things he had only ever bothered Loras with.

There was a beat of silence. "Do they still call her as mad as Aerys?" Tyrion had no doubt his niece was perfectly sane, or at least saner than Joffrey. And she'd never hurt anyone with her oddities, her imaginary friends or her stories...but people high and low loved to talk about the flaws of their betters, even when they were small and defenceless.

Renly nodded. "She was lonely when she was little, that's all." Tyrion knew Renly favored Sylvia, they were rather close in age and Renly had played with her whenever he could, gave her presents, sweets, dresses, whatever it was she wanted. But getting what you want isn't the same as getting what you need, and Sylvia had needed companions her age-ones which wouldn't laugh at her in secret or go away after a time, and ones that were not the Starks.

An idea struck him. He would send his sweet niece a late wedding present when he returned to the Capitol. But for now, Tyrion took another sip of the too bitter, too strong wine.

"Well she's not in the Capitol now. The north suits her better than the south, even if she doesn't know it." Tyrion replied. Renly made no reply, but his agreement was clear even in his silence.

* * *

Sylvia felt drunk by the end of the night, when the little ones had to go to bed, and most ladies had retired. She felt drunk on the wine, the food, the laughter, the dancing, but mostly she felt drunk on Robb. She hardly parted from him the entire night, and only did when some lord or knight pulled her away from him for a dance. He made her forget her drunken father and his fat whore, her worries about the gown she wore, and every other fear she could never put into words. She had never felt so free before.

Lord and Lady Stark's younger children had all gone to bed, but she thought she saw Arya sneaking about an hour after her bedtime. The lord and lady, as well as Jon and Theon remained with them, laughing and drinking without care. The king had retired to some whore's bed, and the queen went to hers, her twin brother following behind only to come back not long after, angry looking and heading straight for the wine. Lord Tyrion and Lord Renly remained, but Ser Loras disappeared a while ago and Ser Fredrik was whispering in some pretty serving wench's ear. That made Sylvia happy. She loved Ser Fredrik and wished for him to be happy. Along with that familiar lot, thirty other men and women who Sylvia hardly knew, danced and drank and sang in the Great Hall.

"BED THEM!" a man called as she and Robb completed yet another dance. The room suddenly swelled with noise again, as large rough hands pulled her away from her husband to push her into a sea of men. Sylvia looked back and briefly caught a glimpse of a flock of giggling ladies pulling her husband away, pulling at his clothes. From up on the dais, she saw Lord and Lady Stark laughing with the room. The bedding was always something everyone looked forward to at weddings.

Big meaty hands undressed her then, pulling at the finery of her dress, and she hears a tear as they pull at the delicate lace. But she doesn't care nearly as much as she thinks she should.

They spout out crass comments about her breasts, her arse, hips and her legs; they laugh how lucky Robb is to have someone so young and pretty, and jest that perhaps Sylvia isn't the innocent little doe they think she is. As they striped her bare, Sylvia pretended she was somewhere else, in the glass gardens, or the godswood, or with Robb in their chambers. She flushed as the men touched and pinched at her naked body good-naturedly, pulling her out of the Great Hall and towards Robb's chambers. For a second she wonders what Fredrik would do if he saw them treating her this way.

"Come on, lass," one man grunts once they're there, a few paces away from Robb's chamber door. She was naked as her name-day, only the new ring around her finger spared to her. And she was _cold_.

"Lord Robb didn't have much to drink, so you're in for a _long_ night, girl." Another said wickedly. A big hand smacked her arse, making her jump forward, a squeak of protest catching in her throat.

"Get on, love. Don't make the poor boy wait any longer. His cock and balls must be bluer than the sky." There was a stretch of laughter at that, and then another, when Sylvia turned to go and tried in vain to cover her breasts.

She bit her lip as she stopped at the door, suddenly realizing she would no longer be a maid when she came back out. The thought made her wonderfully excited and a little afraid. Sylvia wanted to please her Robb on their wedding night, but hadn't the slightest idea as to how. All anyone had ever told her is that a lady lies down on her back, and spreads her legs apart, and then the man puts his...thing inside her. It all sounded too impassive, so cold and detached. How could something that sounded like that, bring pleasure? It didn't sound very appealing. But she supposed to men, lovemaking must have some charms to it, because they were all mad about it, seeking it wherever they could find. Sylvia hoped it was alright, hoped it wasn't as unpleasant as her septa and mother made it sound. She hoped she was enough to keep Robb to her bed only, because the thought that he would stray to another's bed hurt her in ways she never knew could hurt.

Sylvia hurt for her mother just then – a deep ache in her chest for the woman who birthed her and a bitter anger at the man who helped conceive her - knowing the fear of this pain must be nowhere close to the real thing.

Suddenly, she heard the man on the other side of the door stir, soft, almost silent footsteps moving across the stone floor through the rushes. Her secondhand hurt and anger was lost for the night, and her own worries returned. It was true she had stole away inside his chambers a few times at night, and those visits hadn't been chaste, but they hadn't gone anywhere near where they were about to go. But she wanted to. She bit back her childish smile as best she could and pushed open the door.

A beat of warmth greeted her, and the gentle glowing light of the fire. She shivered, wishing that they had spared her a shawl or something, but all thought left her when she saw Robb. He stood before the fire, only in his smallclothes, the long muscled line of his back towards her. He turned, halting all her movements, pinning her with the intensity of his eyes.

They stood before each other, waiting with fear for the terrible word of ridicule or the poorly hidden look of distaste, but it would not come. To each other, they looked shy, nervous...their own vulnerability written across their lovers' face. It was a moment before he looked from her face and down her body, his eyes becoming heavy and looking at her in a way he never had before. She looked down at him as well, belly all aquiver with something she almost didn't understand. He wanted her, she could see it clear as day in the bulging outline of his cock pressed against his smallclothes. It wasn't the first time she'd seen that, but somehow it felt as fresh as the first time.

She flushed, a warm, eager feeling coming to life low in her belly. Hurriedly, she shut the door, and flicked the lock closed.

Robb tried not to take in the details of her naked body so she wouldn't be afraid at how badly he wanted and needed her, but the attempt was impossible. Sylvia, his wife, stood there with not a scrap of clothing obscuring his view of her. She was magnificent in the soft glow of the fire, her ample breasts resting low on her chest, a hardened brown nipple tipping each supple teat. Her hips were wide, her thighs were slender, but soft and round, and between them was a dark tuft of curls. He felt his cock harden, pressing uncomfortably against his smallclothes.

Sylvia walked forward, stifling the urge to cover her nakedness, because this was Robb, her husband. There was nothing shameful about it, she told herself, he thinks I'm beautiful. He wants me. It wasn't like he hadn't seen her breasts before. But still, she wished she had her night dress on. It wasn't that Sylvia was afraid, not about the pain, or loosing what was left of her girlhood; but this was new and uncharted, and she knew little of what to expect. No one had ever told her about the _feelings_ that came with the first night, about the excitement or the desire or the twinge of fear clawing at the back of her mind.

Before, the wedding in the early waking hours, when her mother was brushing her hair out after her bath, she had shared her bit of wisdom for the bedding. "I see the way," the queen had said as she pulled the ivory comb though her eldest child's dark locks. "You look at that boy." It was no secret as to who she spoke of.

"Like what, mother?" the princess asked innocently, truly confused.

"Like he's the knight from some silly song and you are his ladylove." The queen spoke crossly, causing her child to tilt her head down and worry her lower lip. Cersei steeled herself. She wasn't being cruel, she was telling her daughter the truth about bedding. "What did I tell you Sylvia?" she asked. Sylvia frowned blankly. Cersei almost sighed in disappointment. Joffrey never forgot a thing she told him. "Not to expect much from him."

"But I don't expect anything from him," pleaded Sylvia, turning around to look up at her mother, her face so soft and innocent, Cersei remembered just how young her child was. Cersei knew it was a lie. Young brides always expected a night of pleasure on their wedding night, only to be sharply disappointed come morning light. Cersei refused to remember when she had been such a girl.

"There is no pleasure for us, the first time, Sylvia. Remember that." She continued brushing her hair. "It is sharp and stabbing and will cause you tears. It won't last though, I promise, but don't hold any hope of pleasure. You will only be disappointed." Sylvia was surprised and a little hurt at her mother's words, and wanted desperately to speak out in Robb's defence, but she held her tongue. As she always had.

Now she stood before her husband, and all memory of those words were faded and gone.

When she was finally standing before him, he couldn't resist reaching out and touching her bare arm, running his fingers down the length of smooth, pale skin. He wanted _more_, to touch her in places she'd never been touched before, to make her sigh and moan and whimper and call out his name they way he'd always imagined her. There was something strange and heavy between them, something that demanded attention to be paid, something that went far beyond her visits to his chambers at night. There was so much weight to this and not all of it was unpleasant.

There was no need for words – they'd spoken so many that day – so in place of words that would never put what he felt to justice, Robb leaned forward and kissed her instead. The action was so sudden it ripped a gasp from her throat, giving Robb's skillful tongue passage into her mouth. She whimpered and suddenly she was in his arms held tightly against him, her body clutched so close to his for a moment she thought she could melt into him like a candle. He was so _warm_, so solid and good and sweet. It felt so good to be so close to him without barriers.

At once her arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle of his back as he ran his hands up to tangle in her long hair, their lips moving fervently together, tongues twisting in a dance, hands beginning to grow bold and wander. Sylvia squealed when one of Robb's hands reached down to cub her bottom, causing her new husband to chuckle breathlessly at her. She bit his lip playfully; earning a deep groan from his mouth. Her trembling hands reached downward, eager fingers gently ghosting along the taught muscle of his stomach, ticking the hairs leading down into his smallclothes.

Suddenly struck with the urge to taste his skin, Sylvia pulled her mouth from his and moved her sweet lips to his chin and quickly to his neck. Robb panted. She trailed wet kisses down to his chest, where she dragged her blunt teeth against his quickly heating skin. He felt her hot wet tongue swipe across his skin _slowly_, and he very nearly lost control and flung her onto the bed right then. But that would have frightened her he was certain, so he pulled her back up to him and kissed her more passionately than he'd ever had.

His Sylvia responded in kind and wormed her hands between their bodies to pull at the laces of his smallclothes, all fear forgotten and dead. Finally the blasted things were loose and so she pushed them down as far as she could. She pulled away and took a quick peek down at what she was dealing with and took in a sharp breath. She hadn't thought it would be...quite so big. And it was hard as well but when she touched him there, the skin was smooth. Robb moaned and she released a sharp breath. She wanted him desperately; the slit between her legs had begun to ache and she felt hot all over.

She felt their feet stumbling towards the bed causing her hand to fall away from him much to her chagrin and his. There would be time for that again later, she thought feverishly. When Robb's bare foot stepped on her own, she laughed at the pain and pulled Robb back down for a kiss, still giggling against his lips. This wasn't as hard as she had begun to think it would be.

The furs covering his bed are soft and cool under her back, but Robb's warm body covered hers before it could bother her. In that bed, they did things they had never dared to do before, but secretly always wondered about. He kissed her neck and breasts and belly, his slick tongue tasting the skin there and further down still. _Oh gods_, it would be impossible _not_ to attack him every private moment from here on, she would later think. He pulled sounds from her throat she'd never knew she could make and made her hips do a funny little movement every time his tongue flicked so perfectly. Sylvia clawed at his back, chest and gripped his hair, with her nails running across his scalp. No one ever said that a man could do _this_ to her.

"Oh, dear gods, I love you, I love you, I love you, OH-_OHHHHH_ my sweet Robb..." She chants a dozen times just before her insides clenched and the most..._amazing_ feeling engulfed her body. Her legs twisted, her vision went spotty, her belly clenched and embarrassingly loud sounds escaped her mouth. Why had no one told her about _that?_! Dear gods, what was he doing to her? Ladies never made such noises. She hoped he did it again.

When he pulled back up to kiss her after she'd calmed some, she really _did_ attack him. Her lips smashed onto his and her arms clung to him, desperate not to let him go. She loved him more than ever, and wanted him inside her so badly, but at the same time, she wanted to touch him once again, to hear him make the noises _she_ had made and make him hunger for her like she did.

They laid back, Robb half on his side and half on top of her, his arm coming under neck to help support it, and the other feeling across her warm breasts and pinching at her nipples. She moaned into his mouth, clawing at his shoulders and then growing a bit gentler as she trailed her hands downwards again. He groaned long and low when she gripped his length, moving her nimble fingers up and down the soft skin. She smiled against his lips. How much power she had over him! Robb's finger's pinched at her nipple and then began to rub his hand down over her lower belly. Sylvia whimpered, running her hand up from the one on her belly and onto his shoulder, canting her hips up a little in the hopes he would trail his fingers lower. His deft fingers only touched her mound of black curls before he pulled back, away from her womanhood, away from her lips. He even took away her hand, grabbing her wrist and holding it still. Frowning, she reached for him again but he stopped her, his eyes glassy and a tad embarrassed. "I...I don't want to spend...like _this_." She blushed.

It happens and there is no time to think or be afraid, because suddenly, in what felt like an instant, he was _there_, between her legs, the hardness of his staff pressing up against that secret place, which ached for him now. Sylvia marvelled at the strange feeling of him on top of her so intimately, so passionately. He was kissing her, slower than he had before, one hand in her hair and the other under her neck with his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. This was nothing like the cold, disinterested duty she had been told of, this was _hot_, feverish and a great pleasure to carry out.

Then, suddenly, he paused and pulled away from her neck and just _looked_ at her. He looks at her face, her mouth pulling in deep breaths from his time between her legs, her lips red and her breasts rising and falling rapidly. He could feel her heartbeat beneath his palm like drum. And her _eyes_, there was nothing but happiness and love there, complete trust and utter _want_. He was sure he'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life, not even when he saw her coming through the godswood in that southern gown of her mother's making. With that look in his eyes she knew it was time.

Her feet plant against the backs of his legs and her hands grip his arms as he pushes inside her. She gasps against his sweet mouth, nails digging into his arm and leaving little half-moon shapes behind. It's sharp and unexpected, wonderfully filling and terribly sudden. It hurts, quite a bit more than she'd expected, but he kisses her tenderly to keep her away from it. He doesn't even have to hear her say the words. When he slowly begins to rock against her, his head buries in her neck, his hot breath fanning against her skin, his damp curls tangled in her hand while her other runs up and down his back soothingly. Wide eyed she stared up at the cold stones above them, gasping as he began to thrust. He groaned loudly against her neck. It didn't feel as though she'd been robbed of her innocence, as one girl had told her. She didn't grieve for her maidenhead, not when this felt so sweet and right. The feel of him inside her was beyond any comparison, and Sylvia wouldn't trade this moment for anything in the world.

Robb kissed the side of her neck, panting in her ear a moment before he found the strength to look at her without spending himself too soon. He hoped he hadn't hurt her; he had meant to remain still and keep eye-contact with her until she had calmed, but it felt too good to be inside her for that to happen. He could only make up for it later.

His sweet wife looked so radiant then, aglow and happy despite the look of amazement in her eyes. Her sweet red lips twitched into a smile that faded quickly when he pumped his hips again. He shuddered when she let out a moan. Quickly, he descended his lips onto hers and pulled back to look into her beautiful passion filled eyes.

He looked so beautiful when he's hovering above her, strong muscle corded beneath his skin, ripping with every movement. Sweat began to glisten on his brow, and on his back where her fingers dug in. It feels good for him, she thought as he moved above her, his face only inches from hers, and contorted with barely held back pleasure. When it didn't hurt so much anymore, her body tells her to move a little, and when she does he gasps and begins to move a little faster, a little harder. Her whimpers grew louder and her thighs tightened around his hips as she moved once more, earning a low growl from her sweet husband.

It didn't last for much longer; before long he buried his face in her neck again and began to tremble. She felt him groan her name loudly against her skin, his hips pushing against hers a few more times as he jerked and twitched inside her. As he kisses her neck, and murmurs that he loves her, she is certain she has never felt so at home with anyone else before, so complete and happy. This was where she belonged.

"Oh, oh Robb I love you," she breathed, stroking his beautiful auburn curls.

He pulled away and looked at her. "I love you." He replied surely. At once he pressed his lips down on hers and kissed her hard, letting everything he felt for her come though his kiss. When he pulled away, she smiles at him, sweetly, then suddenly there's a glint of sneaky curiosity in her eye. "_Where_ did you learn to do that? With your tongue?"

* * *

**_soooo...yeah...um...k. Not really sure what to make of that. That was my first M scene...well. How'd I do? _**

**_THANK YOU SOOOO MUCH! GHHHEE! 100 REVIEWS! You know how amazing you guys are? Well this is beyond amazing, this is sublime :D_**

**_if you didn't like something, please tell me so I can fix it :D_**

**_P.S-Sorry Moony, no Jaime scenes :( ...not YET ;D_**

**_Edited 5/17/13_**


	7. Chapter 4: Fade Into You

**Hello! I'm so very very very sorry for the long delay :( June's just been a killer -graduation, prom, my sister's wedding, a constant lack of money and trying to decide what to do with my life, really killed my writing mood D': **

**But I have returned! This was originally longer, but there would have been A LOT of important stuff crammed into one chapter, so I've decided to split them in twain, so I'll have more of a chance to linger on the important bits! :D **

_Oh my baby Jesus! 119! 119... THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! I'm gonna cry, I'm so happy ;D_

* * *

**Chapter 4 Fade Into You**

_I was the ashes, you were the ground__  
Under your willow, they laid me down  
There'll be no trace that one was once two,  
After I fade into you_

"_Fade into You" _by Scarlett O'Connor & Gunnar Scott

The pale fingers of light reached out to touch bare skin through the closed shudders, a gentle warmth blooming where those invisible fingers touched the sleeping lovers' skin. It was early, the servants bustling about their morning routines, but it was far too early for the nobles to be up.

From behind his wife, Robb Star twitched, slowly, almost reluctantly, becoming aware of the world. He could feel a warm body curled around his, soft bare skin pressed flush against him, hair tickling his neck and chin, and a steady _ba_-_thump-ba-thump-ba-thump_ under his hand. He never wanted to leave this bed, he thought – or dreamt, he could not tell which. Sleep and reality were gently warring beneath his closed eyes, one trying to coax him back into blissful oblivion, and the other heedlessly reminding him of the things which needed to be done.

Reality was slowly winning the war, and soon he became more and more aware of his surroundings, particularly of the beautiful body he held against his own. He could smell her, the scent of sex from the night before and faded oils and some other faint fragrance that made his blood sizzle. He could feel her legs entwined with his, smooth and soft, feel her limp fingers tangled with his and hear her steady breathing. He had spent one night with her, one night wherein little sleep was achieved, and now could never imagine spending another without her. He'd never felt more content, or more at home than in that moment.

Could they really have done those things? He thought with wonder. He knew for a fact they had, but it was still a wondrous thing to realise, to have shared in something so intimate and special with the one person who he loved more than anyone.

Robb opened his eyes, blinking at the bright light streaming brokenly through his shudders. He lifted his hand from his wife's breast and rubbed at his eyes. When his vision cleared, her found her curled up against him, pressed so close, her back was against his chest, her soft bottom nestled against his manhood, and her long dark hair tangled and tickling his chest and neck. He smiled. She was so beautiful.

When he returned his hand to her hip, still bare from the night before, it suddenly struck him that soon they'd have to rouse and leave his—_their_ chambers. Couldn't day hold itself off for a little longer? With the morning light, the world would come into this little haven, stealing his wife from his arms and him from hers, and giving them new duties to attend to and people to face.

Robb softly rubbed the soft skin of her hip, slowly tailing his hands up her side, back down and over again. He wanted her all to himself today. One night together was not enough, not by half. He wanted to make her squirm and moan again, wanted to be in her again, to feel her pulse around him, see her breasts heave and her eyes become glassy with delight, he wanted to taste that unbelievable pleasure that he had found in her arms once more. Robb pressed his nose into her hair and inhaled the sweet flowery scent of her oils mingled with dried sweat. He felt his cock stir against her bottom.

"Nnng," she mumbled sleepily. He grinned and nipped at her shoulder, earning a startled squeak from a fully awake Sylvia. For a moment she was dazed, awakening in a room that was not hers, to the sudden sharp sting of Robb's teeth, and the unfamiliar sensation of being completely _bare_. Her face flamed. Oh gods, the night before had really happened! She thought with an odd mix of glee and something like embarrassment. She had never felt pleasure, so sweet and tart and world shattering, before. She'd never made those sounds, never _moved_ like that, never crooned and pleaded so wantonly. She wondered if anyone outside their room had heard. Her face reddened even further. Robb had seemed to like the sounds she made though, judging by the way he'd lingered on the places which made her moan loudest.

"What are you _doing?"_ she demanded sleepily. He responded with dragging the blunt of his teeth across her shoulder. It tickled a little. She turned in his arms, her own curled against her chest, hiding her breasts from his eyes.

"That's not an answer," she smiled. "And you're poking _something_ into my belly." She smiled wickedly at him. "What are you thinking about?"

He grinned back at her. "All the wicked things I want to do to you."

Her smile dimmed just the tiniest bit, wondering how to answer such a blunt statement without making a fool of herself. "Really?" she smiled.

"Yes," he replied in the same rough voice he had used the night before. Her insides twitched. She shifted her hips a little to get more comfortable, but her soft skin rubbed against his cock, making Robb moan. Immediately she pulled back, thinking she'd done something wrong, but his hand rushed to her hip to keep her flush against him, his breathing a little heavy. She stared at his face in wonder, her heart pounding. _Insatiable_, she thought, _lusty_.

"And what would you do to me?" If he was not so aroused, he'd be surprised something so bold came from her normally sweet, and almost timid, lips. They might have been more timid if they were strangers to each other, and both were grateful they had gotten to know each other before they wed, unlike so many others. They knew how to toy with each other, how to touch and tease and play, and did not shy away. Such things came when you'd spent the early years of adolescence pushed together and told and hundred times over that one day you would do this very thing. Although at first it had been a forced sort of affection, odd and strained, it had grown into something different; something special and new for two people so young and naive, both so alert to every fresh feeling in their hearts and every sensation in their bed.

Robb _attacked_ her then. He lunged and pushed her down into the furs, kissing her roughly, like a dying man clinging to something which made him feel alive. She kissed him back, sweet and timid, startled by her husband's sudden boldness. Her tongue tangled with his, hot and slick and smooth as silk. Sylvia trembled as he ran his hands up over her hips and to her breasts, feeling her small brown nipples pebble under his palm. When he pressed his hips against hers, drowning her gasp and his moan with a fierce kiss, he pulled away for a second to murmur something that almost sounded like her name.

Her fingers tentatively touched his chest, gently ghosting along the taught skin of his belly, making the muscles beneath, dance and twitch in response. Robb pulled her hand away and held it beside her head, linking his fingers with hers.

Sylvia's head was swimming, her bosom was heaving against her husband's chest and her belly was fluttering and jumping as he rubbed against her. She pulled her lips away to catch her breath, but his lips continued on, over her jaw, licking and kissing and sucking. Her fingers tangled in his auburn curls, nails gently scraping across his scalp and making him shiver. Her lips kissed the side of his face and suddenly, his earlobe was between her teeth. She felt his groan in her chest. "_I love you_," he said, voice harsh with desire (desire for _her_, she thought with pleasure), the words rolling so easily off his tongue. She was helpless to do anything but whimper.

When his mouth dragged between her breasts, he released her fingers, allowing her hands to tangle in his hair as he kissed and nipped at the sensitive skin there. Her breathing was harsh, but rose up to a cry when his lips closed around one nipple, his mouth hot and wet and sweet. She hoped he did the thing with his mouth again. _How did he just _know_ how to—?_

She gasped sharply when he _sucked_, all thought brought to an abrupt halt. Liquid began to slicken between her thighs. She gave a little whimper and tightened her hand in his beautiful curls. "Ohh, _Robb_..." She whimpered out his name so sweetly and beautifully, that Robb doubled his ministrations to hear it from her sweet lips again.

Sylvia had asked him the night before how he knew the things he did, how he knew how to bring her pleasure, but his mind had been foggy with want and lust and need so he didn't answer. The truth was, he'd just fallowed what his instincts told him to do; he'd always imagined doing those things to her—tasting, kissing, touching those secret parts of her body—and by the sounds she'd made and her shy murmurs for more, he didn't find anything wrong with the things they did.

Her hips canted up in a silent plea for more, and Robb couldn't deny her, or himself, any longer. He pulled his lips from her breast and crashed his mouth to hers once again, sliding his tongue over hers and gripping her hips so hard she thought she would bruise. When he pushed inside her again, a broken cry tore from her throat and he felt her tremble and knew he must have hurt her, but she never asked him to stop, or slow, or to be still, and it felt far too good inside her to think of stopping. Sylvia only held him tighter and clumsily rocked her hips against his, both still so new to this wonderful act. "Robb, Robb," she chanted half a hundred times, each time warming his heart with love for her. He heard himself mumbling her own name in reply, into her neck between kisses.

When they were finished, he laid his head on her damp chest, listening contently as her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. She cradled his head; her fingers tangled in his damp curls and kissed him once or twice. "Robb," she whispered like a prayer, only once as a quiet peace took them both. Gods, what he wouldn't do to hear her say it again. Robb spent inside her too quickly for his liking, but he didn't want to move away from this warm, safe place he had found inside her, and cushioned against her breasts. Sylvia never voiced any complaints either, only continued to stroke his curls.

Before long, they were back asleep.

* * *

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

This time they both awoke with none of the gentleness as before. Robb shot up, so quickly the top of his head clipped Sylvia's jaw painfully, clacking her teeth together.

"Ow!" she shouted, a hand flying up to cup her aching chin. Robb sat up and slipped out of her, feeling the slickness of their lovemaking come against his thigh. The top of his head was throbbing from her sharp chin, but he was all too aware of the person on the other side of the door to notice. "Ow," Sylvia mumbled. "Robb, what is wro—"

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_ "M'lord? M'lady? May we come in?" Sylvia's ocean blue eyes widened in fear and looked up to meet Robb's, both freezing for one very long moment as if waiting for the other to have some notion of what to do. They were still naked as their name-day, the furs had long since been kicked down to the foot of the bed but neither had minded. Now they needed cover.

_Knock! Knock! _"Hullo?"

At once they sprung away from each other and as Robb lurched forward to grab the crumpled up furs at their feet, Sylvia sat up and vainly tried to straighten her tangled hair. "Jus-just a moment!" she called out. Robb fell back and Sylvia quickly followed, pulling the cool cover up to just under her chin. She had the urge to hide completely, but princesses don't do such things, especially from simple servants. Robb pulled her close, but she wanted to pull away. The last thing she wished for was the serving girls to have something else to gossip about. Yet she made no protest.

"Come in!" Their breath was a little laboured when the serving girls (three of them—one to feed the fire, one to set down their breakfast and another to draw a hot bath), burst into the room.

The three girls stopped at the end of the bed, eyes focused on the rushes at their feet out of respect. "M'lord, m'lady." They chorused together, and then quickly set about their various chores. Robb and Sylvia watched warily as the serving girls began to scurry about, one girl setting down the tray on the table and then tidying up a bit, the mousy girl began to feed the fire which had gone out in the night, and the third girl began to fill the tub with hot water. As they worked, both Robb and Sylvia grew annoyed that their morning had been interrupted by such tedious tasks that could have been put off until they were good and ready to leave their chambers. But they were loath to bring attention to themselves, both too shy to even meet simple servant's eyes. Sylvia blushed as one girl picked up the soiled washbasin, so very aware that the water and rag within it was pink with the blood Robb had washed her of, the night before.

He'd had been so _tender_ with her after, she could almost cry.

Finally, after what felt like an endless span of time, they were done, and stood before the foot of the bed to take their leave.

"Uh-um, m'lord, Lord Stark requests your company after you've broken your fast." Said one. Robb nodded in reply.

"And m'lady, the queen has asked you visit her chambers as soon as you are..._able to_." Said another. The hidden joke in those words was obvious to the other two maids as they tried to hide their giggles. Sylvia paled. Had she been _that_ loud? She looked up to reply, but noticed the girl who'd spoken looking up, far bolder than any serving girl had a right to be. Unknowingly, the fresh young bride clenched her jaw. She didn't like the way the girl who'd spoken, boldly glanced up, stared right at her husband's bare chest and smiled as though she had a right to look.

"Leave us," Robb ordered. Sylvia glared at their retreating backs until the door slammed shut again. "You look like you want to string them up by their ankles." He smirked.

"I'm honestly considering it," she replied seriously. Her husband chuckled and kissed her forehead. _My wrathful, jealous, sweet, sweet wife, _he thought. He hadn't been blind to the serving girl's wandering eyes, but thought nothing of it. It wasn't as though he'd ever forsake his vows for a quick rut, or that the girl didn't have any other men to lust after. No he didn't mind her looking.

"Peace, sweetheart," he murmured, pushing down the furs again to get up. "Let's have a bath. I'll ease all your tensions away." He smiled so brightly that Sylvia found herself grinning back, her brief dark mood forgotten. Robb tugged her hand and pulled her off the bed and toward the steaming copper tub.

* * *

Her daughter was all smiles when she came into her mother's guest chambers, aglow with some happiness Cersei had never known the day after her wedding to Robert.

The boy was a pup—young, too eager to have given Sylvia much enjoyment, even if he had bedded a whore or two in the past. But that smile hardly left her daughter's lips as they nibbled on their lemon cakes and sipped their hot cider. Sylvia talked gleefully about everything – from her life in Winterfell to how splendid a fighter her husband was. When the queen brought up her other children, a little of the joy left her eyes, but still, she never looked morose for long.

Cersei made no comment on the matter. Her child's happiness bothered her somehow. Most noble brides are not so cheery the night after their first bedding, voicing complains about their husband's performance (or lack of), or keeping silent but miserable all the same. Sylvia was jolly, smiling and laughing like she was the happiest girl in the world. Any mother would be glad for her child...but Cersei saw herself in her daughter, so young, so sweet, so... green. And it would hurt her.

_The happiness will not last,_ she thought. _It_ _will ebb away, bit by bit, taking parts of her with it, and then she will have nothing but bitter memories and children to take care of by herself_. What will happen to her then? She wouldn't have anyone to help ease the pain of the day, (as a mother should never trouble her babes with grown-up problems), like she had Jaime. Her good-sisters and brothers might offer a kind word or two, but in the end, they were Robb Stark's siblings. And for that, she wondered about her eldest daughter's future.

It was impossible for her not to care. She was Sylvia's mother – she carried her for months, brought her into the world with pain and blood, and loved her the moment she saw her, and would until she drew her last breath. Bitterness and distance and pain would not fade the bond between them. She had long since realised this.

"You were right mother, the dress you brought _was_ better suited," Sylvia gushed. "Robb said it was the most beautiful he's ever seen me and..." as she went on, the queen took in her daughter's features, as she so often did when she was with Sylvia.

For a long time, Cersei feared she would be like Robert, a fool, an embarrassment, a shame. These thoughts came sudden and unbidden one night after Robert had claimed his rights as her husband and king, and left her sore and half-naked on her bed. The idea was painful and frightening—another one of _him_ in the world—and just for one small second in time, she almost thought it was better her boy had died, lest he be a copy of Robert entirely. The golden haired queen immediately regretted thinking such things, because she'd have done _anything_ to get her boy back and safe and sound in her arms again. But Sylvia was not like Robert, and when the queen was embarrassed by her daughter because of her silly childhood tendencies at court, the shame was dull and faded quickly. She was just a child after all.

Would Steffon have been the same, or would he be like Robert? The queen knew it was no good to dwell on the child she'd lost so long ago, but when she looked at Sylvia, it was hard not to think of him. They'd looked so much alike when they were babies...

A sad feeling crept up inside the queen's heart. If Sylvia doesn't feel the separation from Steffon now, she thought, she will feel it when her husband disappoints her.

Cersei had always known she was just a pawn to her family, a means to further the gain of her house, first by marrying a king and then by birthing the next one. She used to think being queen would make her happy, and it did, but not as much as it used to. The throne was just an aspiration, a tiring goal she always had to pursue, and she soon came to realize she didn't want to live _only_ for that throne.

But her children, they gave her true purpose. She would see the world burn, if it meant keeping them safe and happy. Without them, she had _nothing_. So she played the game men had played for thousands of years, the game of power and deceit, and grew to love it, growing in confidence as she proved she was as smart as any man. All for them, all for her family. Everything she did was for her children. They—Sylvia, Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen—were her reason for going on.

Cersei smiled at her daughter, a true loving smile. It wasn't long after Steffon had died, when her heart was still raw with pain and despair, that she'd walked out onto her balcony, watching people scurry like ants on the ground below, and wondered what it would be like to fall through the air. Would it feel like flying? She remembered herself thinking without fear. The ledge wasn't very high and she knew she could climb over it before anyone could stop her. Everything would stop—all the hurt, and blame and fear...it would all stop. She so desperately wanted it all to _stop_.

But as she pondered the easiest way to climb over the ledge, she heard her infant daughter cry in the next room, before her wet nurse hushed her and hummed some lullaby to her babe. _Sylvia_. At once, Cersei knew she couldn't know that bit of freedom. Someone was holding her to this life, the baby girl in the next room—she _needed_ her mother, just as much as her mother _needed_ her. Cersei could not bear the thought of leaving her alone in this world, with no one to protect her the way only a mother could.

Before Joffrey was born, Sylvia had been all she had, that small little babe who brought her both joy and pain in equal measure. Sylvia had given her a reason to go on when she thought she couldn't, and for that, the queen would always love her first born girl.

"Will Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella come visit me soon? I'd like to meet Tommen before I have my own baby." Sylvia made sure to include Joffrey, knowing it would please her mother, even though she really didn't want him to visit.

Cersei broke out of her thoughts and took a delicate sip of her cider. She did feel a bit guilty for not bringing her golden haired cubs—Sylvia had looked so crushed when she told her they had remained in the Capitol—but there were hundreds of things that could happen to them on the road, and she would never risk it. "Perhaps, my dear. But they are all so young still, especially Tommen. The king's road is no place for a growing babe. Mayhaps you should visit the Capitol." She took another sip.

The princess twisted her fingers. She didn't think it would be possible; she was married to the north now (her father's words), and there were things expected of her, meaning a baby. And soon. But Robb had never brought up the subject, so perhaps he didn't want a child so quickly either. Hope blossomed in her chest. Maybe she could spend a time in the Capitol.

She smiled and nodded to her mother. Cersei smiled back.

* * *

Two weeks later, the Starks and the rest of Winterfell said goodbye to the royals and their company. Sylvia was very sad to see her parents and uncles go, especially Renly. Since seeing him again after so many years, he'd built up a lot of very interesting things to talk about, providing endless hours of entertainment. He kissed her hand, and promised a present as soon as he saw her again. Uncle Tyrion kissed her hand as well, and said some wonderfully witty words which made her sad to see him go, and Uncle Jaime...well he didn't even acknowledge her.

_He's far to official_, she thought later, _Uncle Jaime always has been_. When she was a little girl she'd run to him a few times, with Ser Fredrick in tow, and show him a trinket she found absolutely splendid or a new puppy or kitten mother had just given her. She'd found nothing wrong with it, he was her mother's brother, and her other uncles never minded. But always, Uncle Jaime would mumble a few words— "Oh yes, that's ever so _fascinating_," or "My, my, princess, _another_ pet. You'll be mistress of a farmhouse before long,"—and leave so abruptly, that even as a child she'd felt snubbed. And even as a child, his words always made her angry, because it always sounded like he was making fun of her. But, as children's understanding goes, she never thought much on it, but after a while, she stopped bothering him with such things and paid her attentions to Ser Fredrik instead. Uncle Jaime never complained.

Mother bid her goodbye with a kiss to the forehead and an insistence that she visit the Capitol immediately. Father left her with a gentle clap on the shoulder and a joke on how she should be with child soon enough since she and Robb so seemed to enjoy each other at night. If looks could kill, the king would have been six foot under, by both her husband and her mother.

She missed her family as soon as the gates of Winterfell closed. When she would see them again, she did not know, and that was the worst part. Would she have a baby in her belly or in her arms when next she saw her mother? Would she have a multitude of children? Would it be a tragedy that brought them back together? Or a happy day, like their wedding? So many questions, but none knew the answer.

The new little Lady Stark, as Ser Fredrik called her affectionately, was solemn for days after the royal convoy's departure, and Robb knew little in how to comfort her. He tried his best to cheer her, to get her to smile, but those joys didn't last very long.

"I'll be alright," she promised one night, three days after her family left. Robb's worry and impatience had boiled over and now he raised his voice to get her to do _something_ other than sulk. But she was calm when she replied, gentle when she took his hand in hers and pleaded for him not to worry so much and sweet as sin when his began kissing from under his ear and over his jaw. He held her hips in his large hands as she spoke into his neck, laying her head against his chest and clutching his doublet like a child. "It just bothers me a while after parting from my family," she said, and it hurt Robb to know she'd felt this way before.

"We're your family now," he countered, running a hand up her back to between her shoulder blades. _But they are my family as well_, she thought.

"Yes you are," she replied, nuzzling her head into his neck like a cat. He rumbled out his reply and kissed her forehead.

A month later, a girl arrived at Winterfell by the name of Elane, sent by Tyrion Lannister to be a personal handmaiden to Sylvia.

* * *

**When I started to write this, I was gonna be cruel and give Robb and Sylvia blue-balls, but I decided not to :D**

**The next chapter shouldn't take super long to put up, it's pretty much half written ;D**

**Also the Red Wedding...fuuuuu-! After watching that, grraah! I kept asking myself (out loud) "WHY was I BORN!?" I always knew it was gonna happen, but man...it hurt soooo much to watch X'( let me one of the first to say: "fuck you Walder Frey! Double fuck you Roose Bolton!" there, it's out.  
But the King in the North WILL freaking live on! **

PLEASE** _REVIEW_, **THEY ARE THE NUTRIENTS THAT THE GERBALL IN MY BRAIN NEEDS TO CONTINUE WRITING :P


	8. Chapter 5: Time

**Hello :D WARNING: this chapter has some sensitive content **

**This was by-far the hardest chapter I've ever had to write for the story. Seriously, I rewrote it 3 times. Ugh. I really hope I chose the right variation to put up :(  
**

**Also, don't forget to cast your vote for GoT Summer Awards as hosted by the lovely, Maddie Rose ;D  
****P.S- MissMac and I are currently in the process of writing a story together, "Broken Crown" a Sansa/OMC story, so if you like, go check it out on my profile :)**  


**Also, we all know I own nothing but my ideas. **

* * *

**Chapter 5: Time**

For the most part, time passed quickly as if usually does when one is happy. And Robb and Sylvia were quite happy. _Most days._

Their first real argument as a married couple was about visiting the Capitol. Plainly, Sylvia wanted to go, and Robb did not. More like he refused to even consider the notion.

"Stark's who go to King's Landing, never come back home," he argued. Vividly, he remembered the stories of fire and blood, of a madman's laughter as his grandfather roasted in his own armour and as his uncle strangled himself, like an animal caught in a trap. No mercy. No honour. That was no way to die, and the fact that his own kin had suffered as such, made his resolve much stronger. There would be snow in _Dorne_ before he set foot in the Capitol.

"Under an old king, a _mad_ one! The _new_ king is your father by law!" she countered. Sylvia was angry; for the last few days they'd been back and forth on this, with her suggesting they visit and take in life at court a while, and with Robb countering that there was simply too much to do in Winterfell and visiting King's Landing would not be wise. Tension mounted and built until finally it all boiled over into a loud argument between the two newlyweds. She didn't want to argue, it was the last thing she ever wanted to do, especially with Robb.

Wasn't arguing something people who _hated_ each other did? She loved Robb, but his constant excuses for not wanting to go south for a few months, was making her very angry, and a Baratheon's anger was a famous thing. Their house words warned people about it, for gods sake! She remembered screaming and shouting as a child, claps of skin meeting skin in the worst way, and the thud of bodies falling against hard things. To her, _that_ was arguing. Sylvia trusted Robb not to raise a hand to her, but her heart kept her cautious, always half expecting a blow, because that's how it usually happened. Wasn't it? But even that small fear could not override her pride, and need to prove she was right.

"How dare you even _presume_ my own _father_ would plot something treacherous against your family?!" The idea itself was laughable.

Robb ignored it. "That place is a snake pit of politics and lies, I won't let you go there!" Their shouts were so loud now that servants ran past the door, in case one of the two came storming out and caught some poor soul in their path. Ser Fredrik stood guard outside the door, listening intently and ready to intervene if he had to. He knew the Starks were honourable men and didn't believe in beating their wives, but years in the Capitol, listening to and hearing of the king striking his wife, had made him far too careful when it came to Sylvia.

"You've never even _been_ there you-you-you fool!" Sylvia screeched. Inside, she was surprised at herself; she'd never called Robb a name in anger before. "_I_ lived there for _eleven_ years! I want to go home! I want to see my brother and sister!" Little Tommen who she'd never met and dear sweet Myrcella who she hadn't seen in far too long, were becoming farther and farther away as she argued with her husband. Somewhere, deep inside, she knew she would not win—Robb was just as stubborn as she. But still she fought on with all she could, because a Baratheon never lies down, and meekly concedes defeat. _Ours is the fury_, she thought.

"Sylvia, we've only been married _three months!_ Now's not the time to be running off to the south! We have duties here!" Robb bit back vehemently.

"You! _You_ have duties here! You Starks and your duty, duty, _duty!_ I have no real duties here! Winterfell will keep working without me!"

"You _being here_ is your duty! I'm your husband! I get a say in what we do and where we go!" he shouted back.

"So do I! Why don't you want me to go back? _Please_, tell me true!" she pleaded. Robb paused. He could tell she was getting upset, her anger ebbing away into hurt and sadness. Robb nearly lost all his fight right there.

She was so sweet, so kind, and all he had ever heard of the Capitol was that one had to be hard and willing to do anything, in order to survive there. So many times, when _she_ spoke of her life there, she'd tell him of what a bully her brother was, or how she hated playing the harp, and even how once when she was very small, her father let her sit on the Iron Throne for a few moments.

Yet through all her petty complains and fond (albeit lonely) stories of her childhood, he could faintly see a picture of the Capitol he didn't like. When she talked about her brother, she told him how he'd kicked her puppies and kittens, and how after one terrible incident with a cat (she didn't go into much detail), she never had another pet. He finally asked why he always did the things he did. "Didn't your father ever punish him?" he asked curiously. Once when he was just a little lad, he pushed his sister down in the mud, causing a cut on her arm where she'd landed. His father gave his behind a thrashing after explained why he mustn't ever do it again. Robb never did.

"He...he _does_," she wouldn't really call what father did to Joffrey discipline. Looking back it was more just a very harsh beating than a father correcting his son, and she felt sad for her little brother. He was just a small little boy then, and her father had always been a big man. For such a small child to take a hit like that—from his own _father_, no less—brought forth pity she hadn't felt for Joffrey in _years_. Even though what he did (what he _still_ does as far as she knew), was horrible and terrible, surely it could have been handled better. "But...he isn't very good at it and mother...well, when it comes to Joffrey, she's just much more passionate about raising him than father." She said, having a bit of trouble trying to explain it in the most flattering way. Sylvia didn't want Robb to think badly of her family, but by the way he was frowning, told her he already was.

Not only was Robb wary of her younger brother and how people there simply _let_ him get away with his cruelties, he truly _did not want_ to go to the place where his family had been so wronged. A different king, yes, but...it didn't sit well with him: the idea of going to King's Landing when the last Starks who had gone there, had died so horribly. And he was his father's heir; he belonged in Winterfell, and now so did Sylvia, although she fervently insisted she belonged where her family was.

He wanted to stay in Winterfell, where he knew without a doubt, she'd be safe from the ugliness of the Capitol. But he couldn't tell her that, she throw it back at him and tell him she wasn't a child who needed protecting.

"If you go there, don't expect me to meekly follow you." He said finally. She fixed him with the harshest glare he'd ever seen on her, and stormed out of the room. They hardly spoke for two days after that.

* * *

"It's all right, my lady," Elane comforted as she gently pulled the sponge down Sylvia's hair, washing it of the sweet lavender oils she's worked through the black strands. Sylvia had begun recounting the whole spat as soon as her body sunk down into the hot water, and each word that dripped off her tongue, felt like a little weight lifted from her heart as her new handmaiden listened dutifully. "Men...they always have to be right, you see, but when they realize they're not, they come back and grovel." Sylvia smiled at her handmaiden's words. Elane had been with her for three months now, and already, Sylvia counted her as one of her closest friends. The girl was beautiful and witty, clever and kind, and ever so easy to talk with. It felt good to complain and have someone agree with her. Sylvia was grateful her dear uncle Tyrion had sent Elane to her.

"With the way he's been acting, I hope so. Do you know he said King's Landing's a snake pit?" Sylvia remarked. "The dunderhead has never even been past the _Neck_. Shows how much he knows." The young lady grumbled. Elane smiled in agreement and continued her task. "I'm so tired of _fighting_ with him," she lamented, dropping her head back against the tub with a harsh thud. "We've never fought like this before. I just want to go back and take the entire quarrel back. But...he doesn't know anything about the Capitol! And he won't even _consider_ it! Like what I want doesn't matter. And why does he think it always has to be his way? I'm still the _princess_."

Elane giggled. "I'm sure Lord Robb just needs a bit of persuading, my lady. My mama said even though the man is the head, the woman is the neck, and the neck turns the head, any way she wants."

"I shouldn't have to _persuade_ him. He should just...listen to me." Sylvia ended sadly. Elane didn't reply, and she began to feel prickles of discomfort at the back of her mind. Had she made her new friend uncomfortable? "Your mother sounds smart. Who was your mother, Elane?" Sylvia asked to both change the ugly topic, and the fact that she truly was curious. Where had her new handmaid come from? She knew Casterly Rock, but that was it.

"Oh, just some woman from Casterly Rock; nothing really very interesting about her. Now my father, he's much more interesting." Elane smiled proudly. She set down the sponge and picked up an ivory comb to begin brushing her lady's hair with.

"Why is your father so interesting?" Elane had never had a mistress so interested in her life before. Often, she'd been told she talked too much and that her job was to keep her mouth shut and listen to her mistress' every problem and command. Now Lady Sylvia's questions were strange, but not unwelcomed and she answered the younger girl honestly.

"Because I don't know who he is."

A beat of confused silence, then: "You're a bastard?!" Sylvia was surprised. Not disgusted, only surprised...well maybe a little dismayed. In the Capitol, it would be unbecoming for a princess to be associated with a bastard and for her own noble uncle to send one to her as a gift was a bit of a jolt. _Bastards are vile, shameful children, born of sin_, her septa had said. She'd loved Bryda and so believed her.

But then when she came here, she met Jon Snow, Robb's natural brother. At first, she'd wanted nothing to do with him, although she never said so out loud, because her betrothed, his younger siblings _and_ Lord Stark were so fond of the boy. Her loathing for him came to a halt when she saw how kind he was, how gentle he was with his young siblings, just like Robb. Jon was quiet, shy, gentle and ever so kind and polite. He wasn't anything like what everyone in the Capitol had said bastards would be and she'd come to look past his ugly title and see him as Robb's brother, different names and mothers but brothers all the same. She cared for him as much as she did Bran and Rickon, but he was still a bastard, and so her fondness for him was often muted in public.

"Well, yes. Technically." Elane replied timidly. "My mother was a handmaiden to Tywin Lannister's wife when she was alive, but when she got pregnant with me, she couldn't work anymore, because what lady would want a fat, dishonoured handmaiden? But Lady Joanna was so very kind and let my mother keep working until I was born, and then after that I stayed in the kitchens until I was old enough to serve too."

"Really? My grandmother must have been very kind. My mother never talks about her. But how'd you become a handmaid? Bastards usually never rise so high." Elane blinked in surprise, but answered.

"Well, one of the lesser ladies in Casterly Rock needed a handmaid and so...Then about three months ago—after you wedding my lady—Lord Tyrion came back to Casterly Rock and had all us handmaids line up. He went up and down a few times, stopped at me, and asked me what my name was, who my parents were and if I'd like to go to Winterfell to serve his _lovely_ niece." She finished with an affectionate, yet professional nudge to Sylvia's shoulder. Elane and Sylvia both smiled at the compliment. Elane continued to comb her lady's hair, some water dripping from the black strands and onto her skirt covered lap.

"But why is your father more interesting than your mother?" Sylvia asked.

"Because I don't know him, I make up stories about him, and why he's not here. It's better than not knowing, I think." Elane had done this ever since she was a little girl, to make up for the loneliness at not knowing who her father was. She'd made up lots of stories.

"Oh. Can you...can you tell me one?"

Elane smiled. "Of course my lady. Well, he was a pirate from across the sea and into the Summer Isles, and one day he was..." as her new friend told her story, Sylvia forgot the fight with her husband for a few moments and let her handmaiden's tale take her away.

But Sylvia was still angry at Robb when he came to her that night, and was still angry when he said he was tired of having a silent war with his wife.

"Four days is too long to argue," he said. She said nothing. "Please, Sylvia." He sounded so sincere, yet so stern and lordly that Sylvia's resolve began to chip away at the look in his blue eyes. She looked away. "Please see it through my eyes; we've only been married a few months and it wouldn't...I don't want to keep you away from your family. I know you're angry, but—" He didn't say he was sorry, and so, neither did she. As if to spite him and add more truth to his words, she remained silent. She knew it petty and childish, but she didn't care at this point in time. Sylvia only lay down and turned away on her side.

Robb sighed. "I love you," he said after a moment in the darkness of their chambers. Robb turned away as well, leaving it at that, his back facing her as he settled in for another long, cold night.

He was nearly asleep when he felt her arms embrace him from behind, warm and soft and so wonderfully welcome. Without uttering a word, he turned back and pulled her into his arms, her sweet scent filling his nose and making his chest rumble with pleasure. He suddenly realised just how much he didn't like sleeping away from her.

"I'm sorry things got the way they did." He heard her whisper in the dark, her breath warm on his chest.

She wasn't sorry for her opinion on the matter, he noted, and Robb couldn't fault her for that, because neither was he. They could only be sorry for their anger, and for hurting the other with it, and that was enough. They were both tired of fighting a useless battle anyway. "I'm sorry I yelled." He replied. She pressed a chaste kiss on his chest in response.

In the end, Sylvia didn't get to go to the Capitol. Robb had won, but he didn't feel good about it. In fact he abhorred thinking he'd won anything. Eventually, the anger and hurt waned, but visiting King's Landing was still a tender spot to bring up

* * *

_About a year after the wedding_

"Oh, ohhh, OHHH! _OOHHH!_" Sylvia keened fervently. Robb groaned into her neck and gripped her thighs so tight it hurt as he jerked and twitched, reaching the crest of his pleasure inside her. After a year, after countless times of being together in the most delightful of ways, she could never see this—this intimacy and passion—ever losing appeal. She adored being so close to him, felt...somehow complete when he was with her like this. At ease. Safe. Home. She wondered if he felt the same. It was quiet for a moment, the corridor only filled with their heavy breathing and the popping of the torch overhead as they calmed. "We'll be late, to S-Sansa's—_ahh_—f-feast." the onyx haired woman murmured into her husband's ear, a lazy smile on her pink lips. She tightened her grip on the back of his head, fingers tightly coiled around his soft auburn curls.

"Don't care," he mumbled back, his voice husky and lazy with pleasure, his beard scraping against the sensitive skin of her neck. Sylvia smiled and pulled his hair harshly, pulling his head back so he could meet her eyes.

"Put me down," Robb chucked breathlessly and complied, her legs unwrapping from his hips and disappearing under her skirts as she smoothed them down. With slightly shaky hands, he tucked himself away and began to lace up his breeches, smiling coyly all the while. "We are never going to get anything done, if you attack me all the time," she smiled. The laces of her bodice were loose under her hands, having been pulled and tugged by Robb's greedy fingers. She began to tighten them as she leaned against the wall again.

"You seem to enjoy it," he smirked. He knew full well she did. She'd never make those sounds, never move that way, if she didn't.

"Oh yes, I _adore_ being pawed at constantly." she shot back, half joking. For the last year, they'd seemed to _always_ crave each other's touch, young as they were. Theon had even said they would rut on the dinner table at night if they could, although in an entirely vulgar way that made Sansa blush and Sylvia splutter out curses at the stupid squid boy. She would die before she _ever_ admitted Theon was half right. As time went along, they grew more and more comfortable in their lovemaking and found that waiting _all day_ to retire to their chambers was simply not suitable to their needs. So they decided to right that little problem. Sylvia blushed at the mere memory. She'd never be able to go past the Glass Gardens or the heart-tree in the godswood, or even various dark corners in Winterfell's castle without blushing ever again. "You know, I hear people say you're the first wolf in the North who's ever been so warm." She began to try to smooth her hair down.

"Well...you _are_ southern." Sylvia giggled. When they were sure they were decent, they pulled away from the darkened corridor and walked to the Main Hall with silly, satisfied grins on their faces.

The days in Winterfell had passed without much event. Sansa and Arya visited her some days, strolling with her throughout Winterfell, talking about pleasant things which Arya would soon grow very bored with and find some way to make their stroll more interesting. Little Rickon had taken to throwing things; just a few nights ago he'd thrown his pudding at her when she'd teased him. The child had remarkable aim for such a little thing—the brown goop had splattered all over her neck, jaw and hair. Bran continued climbing the walls and towers of Winterfell despite Lady Catelyn's command not to, even though he never fell. Theon had taken it upon himself to defile Elane like one of his back alley whores, even though Sylvia had all but ordered him to keep his cock to himself. Elane was sly and quick as a fox though, and she spurned Theon's advances each time and sent him away with his tail between his legs.

The long summer days passed into months without much interruption. Robb and Sylvia celebrated a year together by riding out through the moors around Winterfell for a day, and then finding themselves naked at the foot of a large hill amongst the tall grass. But on one particular morning, not very long after their ride, it became clear that Robb and Sylvia's habitual routine was at an end.

The young woman stood with Maester Luwin in her chambers, looking anywhere but his kindly old eyes as he asked her _very_ delicate questions. The old maester had always been kind to her, he had taught her how to tell between the different constellations and had taught her about every different king before Aegon's Landing, and now she had to answer questions of a very personal nature. She could have consulted her old septa, but she despised the sour old creature, and didn't want her to spoil potentially the most memorable moment of her life. Maester Luwin felt at her belly, pressing and kneading, a concentrated look in his eye as she stared up at the stone ceiling, much like she had her first night as Sylvia Stark.

When he pulled away and permitted her to sit up, it was his simple nod that made her burst into tears. And she hated crying, it was _highly_ undignified for a princess. She'd seen how her father hated tears, and knew men must hate it when a woman cries, but she didn't care, and neither did Maester Luwin who kindly patted her back in comfort.

The woman couldn't believe this wonderful news, and as eager and alight as she was, she couldn't sit down and paced the floor half a hundred times before she ventured out of her chambers. Sylvia felt different as she strolled through the corridors of Winterfell, older somehow. Changed. She was going to be a _mother_; she was carrying her husband's baby inside her...a little babe of their own, one they had made together, one they would raise and love together. The best part of the both of them, combined into one little person.

Robb was the first person she wanted to tell, she wanted to see the look on his face when she told him she carried his child in her belly. He'd be with his father probably, and Lord Stark was usually in his solar. Her heart thumped loudly in her breast as she approached Lord Stark's solar doors. How would he react to the news? Would he be happy as she? Angry? She hoped not, because she felt _so_ elated she could fly. She hesitated a second before knocking. It was not a wife's prerogative to interfere her husband's duties, but...surely finding out you were to be a _father_ would override such social norms for just a second?

With a steady hand, she knocked on the door, and was thankful for the muffled, "Enter," from the other side. The door never felt heavier under her hand.

Lord Stark was more surprised than anything when his good-daughter came rushing into his solar, aglow with happiness. He could only guess what would have a woman so aflutter, unable to stop smiling for he'd seen that exact same look four times before with Catelyn. Eddard stopped reading the raven's scroll in his hands and glanced up at his son's wife in curiosity, while Robb frowned and closed the book he'd been reviewing before standing and crossing the little bit of space between them.

"Sylvia what are you doing?" Robb demanded. It was a bit...embarrassing for her to come here unannounced. He didn't want his father to reprimand him like a boy once she left, but she'd never done this before. What was wrong? What was so important she felt the need to interrupt?

"I need to speak with you." She beamed, his disapproving tone having no affect on her mood. With a momentary glance at his father, and seeing him nod once, Robb and Sylvia quickly hurried out the door.

His wife turned to him as the door closed. "Sylvia you can't just come here like this, it—"

"Robb I'm pregnant," she blurted with a smile. She didn't even care he'd been reprimanding her like a child. She just...had to tell him. Her fingers twisted and tangled nervously in front of her, watching his face dissolve into shock and awe. His blue eyes flicked to her flat belly and then back to her face, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth through his surprise.

"A...a baby?" he finally managed with hardly controlled elation. Sylvia nodded. A breathless laugh came from her husband's lips, echoed by her own.

A bubble of happiness expanded out from his chest at the thought of a child of their own. He _loved_ her, and the idea of her round and swelling with his babe gave him a feeling of pride and joy unlike any other. Without warning, Robb grabbed her hips and pulled her close, wrapping her up in his arms as tight as he dared. That same stinging in her eyes came back again, but this time, she didn't feel the same urgent need to wipe her tears away. Sylvia buried her face in Robb's chest, inhaling his wonderful scent for a moment. Robb stared at the wall behind Sylvia unblinkingly, amazed at his wife's news. He couldn't believe it. She was pregnant. She was having his baby! He smiled.

When he pulled away after a long moment of holding her, he cupped her cheeks and tilted her face up to kiss her. Sylvia sighed in his arms, and then gasped in surprise when his teeth nipped at her bottom lip, his tongue plunging inside at once and coaxing hers into a slow dance. In his mind's eye he could see her: beautiful and radiant as ever, swollen and round at her belly, with _his_ child, proof he'd had her, proof to the entire world she loved him and had a part of him growing inside her. Something deep inside him growled with pleasure, like an animal baying into the night sky in hope of a reply, and then hearing an answer from its pack. Yes, he very much liked the idea of her carrying his pup.

Slowly, his lips pulled from hers but he kissed her once, twice and then three times before he brushed his nose against hers. His breath was warm on her face, and smelled of the bacon he'd been eating at breakfast. She opened her eyes to look at him, and found his beautiful river-blue eyes staring down at her intently. "I love you. I _love you_," He enunciated softly. Sylvia mumbled her reply, still dazed at his sudden heated kiss. As he held her hip, his hand slipped ever so slightly until his palm rested against the flatness of her belly.

* * *

News of the princess' pregnancy spread like fire through the north, and before a moons turn, even the lowliest people in the most meagre fishing villages knew. People in the south knew and were glad for the princess' babe, giving it momentary attention, before continuing on with their activities. When the raven came to the Keep, the king had laughed and boasted how he knew it wouldn't be very long before his daughter had a pup of her own. Robert was marvellously pleased for days after, his lifelong aspiration of having both Stark and Baratheon bound by blood finally achieved. The queen wouldn't receive any visitors that day, and kept shut up in her rooms with her children when she heard the news.

Sylvia's belly curved quicker than she ever could have imagined. Their child was growing every day, and she held the little bump proudly, even as her body changed to accommodate the babe within her womb. Her breasts grew tender to the point where Robb could not touch them when they made love for fear of causing her pain. Her feet and back began to ache and she craved the _oddest_ things—like bread and jam with bacon on top—and she was tired, _all the time_. Although she might have preferred the comfort of her blood during such a strange time, she was happy her husband's family was with her. And if she was honest, the only people in the Capitol who might have actually given her comfort through the coming months were Myrcella and possibly her mother. Father would be crass, Uncle Tyrion and Uncle Renly knew nothing of childbearing, and Uncle Jaime and Tommen were out of the question—Jaime too distant and Tommen too little. Joffrey she wouldn't even think of.

But Lady Catelyn was very kind—very _happy_—and told her what to expect in the coming months. Lord Eddard was kind-hearted as he always was and said it would be a wonderful thing to have a babe in the castle again. They both seemed very delighted to be grandparents.

Sansa was absolutely over the moon to be an aunt, almost as excited for the impending arrival as Sylvia and Robb. She'd taken to making a darling swaddling blanket for the baby, and liked to show Sylvia its progress each time she visited her. "I've just started in on the river here, see?" the sweet girl pointed out on the small stretch of cotton. The work was delicate and fine, simple blue stitching woven into the pale grey fabric. "I am going to add in some flowers as well, to represent the south." Sylvia smiled at that. Yes, flowers would be lovely, a reminder of the south, where the child's mother had come from.

Arya was less..._enthusiastic_ than her sister, more curious than anything really, but she never voiced her questions like her littlest brother. When the fifth moon started, and her belly was noticeably round, more than once Sylvia or Robb had caught Arya staring at it with a disbelieving look on her face. Once during an outing in the godswood with the younger children, Robb called attention to his sister's fascination with his wife's swelling belly. "Are you afraid of Sylvia's bump, Arya?" He asked with a boyish smirk.

"_I am not!"_ the wild Stark girl screeched in offence. "It's just...weird...there's a baby in there." she poked a finger towards the bump sticking out between the slit of Sylvia's cloak. As soon as she said it, her face flamed up at how lame it sounded, but it was strange that there was another person under Sylvia's skin, a little...creepy. She didn't remember when her mother was swelling with Bran or Rickon, and now she was old enough to really understand what caused the bump under Sylvia's dress. It wasn't very big, but it was still growing...it was different from seeing the cats or hounds pregnant. Sylvia was a _person_, and she had another human growing..._inside her_. It was strange, almost unbelievable.

Sylvia grinned, and moved her cloak away a little to allow the bump to be fully visible. "Here, give me your hand." Sylvia put out her gloved hand to her young good-sister, giving her a gentle smile of encouragement. With trepidation, Arya did as she was bid. With the younger girl's hand was in hers, Sylvia pulled her arm and suddenly, her _hand_ was on the side of the bump she stared at with such strange curiosity. And it was fine until she felt _it_: a tiny little nudge under her hand, and Arya jumped back.

"What is it doing?" She cried in horror. She hadn't considered if they moved or not.

"He's kicking," Sylvia smiled a sly smile. "Why? Does it frighten you?"

"You've got another person _moving_ under your skin!" the younger girl shouted disbelievingly. Robb laughed and placed a hand on his sister's shoulder, leaning down to look her honestly in the eye.

"He does that quite a lot," he grinned at her. When he pulled away, he put a hand on Sylvia's belly, wrapped an arm around her waist, and smiled that stupid dreamy smile he always made when he was around Sylvia. Arya rolled her eyes at them and went to find Bran or Jon, to wash her mind of Robb's stupid dreamy grin, and the moving bulge under Sylvia's dress.

Robb looked down to where his hand rested when he felt another firm nudge landed on his palm. "I think he grows stronger every time I feel him." he murmured thoughtfully as she rubbed her finger tips over his knuckle. Her hand was warm over his; even through the leather of her gloves he could feel her warmth. Sylvia couldn't look away from his face, his handsome, serene looking face. He usually only ever looked that way when he was meditating before the heart-tree, but he was feeling their baby move, and she felt her heart ache sweetly at his calmness in his eyes.

"Aye, I think so too." He grinned fondly at their hands and then looked at her. "Why do you think it's a boy?" she asked with an amused grin.

"I don't know. I just feel it." He replied. The hand around her waist began to move to her hip, slowly as the falling summer snows.

"You're just guessing, aren't you?" Sylvia giggled cheerfully. "Shall we make a wager of it then?" Her hands raised up to fist the warm wolf fur lining the top of his cloak.

Robb smirked back, the hand on her belly beginning to move to her hip as well. "Yes. And when I'm right, you'll have to owe me something."

"And what will I owe you?"

His leaned in close so his lips were only a small distance from hers. "Haven't decided yet." He whispered with a wolfish grin as his hands slipped down to cup her bottom under her cloak.

"Oh I think you have." She smirked devilishly before she quickly kissed him. "But there are children about, so we'll discuss who-wins-what later." She pulled away from his arms and started after Rickon only a short distance away. Robb smiled and started after her.

Bran and Rickon were much the same: indifferent, apart from when she took their small hands and put them on her belly to feel what Arya had felt. Bran smiled and went on with his day, but Rickon being only a five year old, began overflowing with questions. "How did it get in there? Is it stuck? When will it be here? Will it be a boy or girl? Will it like to play with me? Will it have a tail!? Old Nan said there once was a baby born with a tail and then it grew paws and pointy ears and fur and turned into a wolf! Will your baby be a wolf?" Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard tried to answer every question as quickly as they could, but the little boy came up with them so fast that often they were at loss how to answer.

Theon had taken to making jokes about her protruding belly—comparing her to her father once or twice—but was otherwise pleasant. She had to admit his jests were funny. She blamed it on her uncontrollable emotions. Jon said little as always, but he'd always been so kind to her—he would ask her how she fared and how the child was, and she'd always reply just as pleasantly. Like his other siblings, she even had him feel her belly, and thoroughly enjoyed his look of amazement when he felt the baby roll around under his hand.

Robb was probably the happiest of them all, like a proud father he touched the swell between her hips all the time and smiled at her so gently. He could never keep his hands off her swelling belly for very long, and at night, he would press his lips there, whispering the growing child within. Sometimes she would awaken with his hand on her stomach, Robb's hand having somehow found the curve in the night and for as long as she lived she could _never_ forget his face when he felt the baby move the first time. They were happy...but behind closed doors, they let their fear show.

"What if I drop it?" Robb asked suddenly as they prepared for bed with Sylvia was unlacing his doublet as he spoke. She'd taken to helping him undress at night, as he'd taken to brushing his fingers through her long hair. It was a ritual they did almost every night, one that was both familiar and comforting in its warmth.

"What?" His wife replied as her fingers deftly twisted and loosened the strings.

"I can't help but wonder," he defended quickly. "What if I drop our babe?"

Sylvia paused a moment to look up at her husband with an incredulous look. This wasn't the first time he'd voiced one of his fears to her, but this was by far the most absurd. "My love, you can hold onto _Rickon_ when he's angry; I think you can hold a docile infant." Finally her fingers were done and he pulled the leather doublet overhead. She licked her suddenly dry lips at the sight of his bare chest and stomach.

He tossed the doublet away on the chair near the fire. "I know you're right, but the fear still stands." He replied. Rolling her eyes, Sylvia stepped away, pulled her long hair over her shoulder and turned around. Robb started on the laces of her dress as well, pulling and unknotting the strings like he had so many nights before. Sylvia could almost purr with pleasure at his gentle hands.

"We should start thinking on names." He said as he continued on his task.

"If it's a boy, I want Robert," she exclaimed immediately. Robb raised a brow. Well...she'd been thinking on this a while, he realized. "We could call him Robbie." She continued. Robb frowned as finished with the laces; he pushed the dress off her shoulders until it was just a crumbled pile pooled at her feet. His wife turned, shivering in her under shift and looked up at him, a small smile on her beautiful face. "Yes?"

"No." He replied directly.

Sylvia's jaw dropped in surprise. "What? What do you mean 'no'? Robert is a good name, after _my_ father and after _you_. After the _king and _my own sweet husband." Her hands gripped his shoulders, pressing close to him as though she were trying to persuade him with her sweet scent and soft body.

"It's just..._ugh_." He grinned at her face. She looked so disgruntled it warmed his heart, her nose even scrunched up.

"'_Ugh_'? Robert's a good name, a good strong name. It's an honour to my father."

"Well in that case, if it's a girl we should name her Lyanna." He countered seriously.

"Lyanna?" she echoed. She looked to think for a second, and then scrunched up her nose again. "No, absolutely not."

"Why not? It's an honour to my aunt." Her hands left his shoulders and went down to retrieve the crumbled dress at her feet. When she had it, she walked around him and threw it over the dressing screen.

"And an insult to my mother." She said. Her father was going to marry Lyanna Stark but she had died when her father loved her so much, he started a war to bring her back. It would insult her mother to name her first grandchild after the woman.

"Just as '_Robert'_ would be an insult to our babe." Robb said this with no bitterness, but rather a straight forward kind of voice, one a lord used when commanding authority.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she frowned as she turned back to him.

"The man was drunk at our wedding. Forgive me if I'd rather not name my first child after him."

"Well we wouldn't call him Robert. We'd call him Robbie. I _like_ Robbie, its dear." Truly, when he put it that way, the name suddenly lost much of its previous appeal. It still bothered her that her father had been so..._drunk_ at her wedding. She was his daughter, and it had been her wedding day, so why hadn't he done her a kindness by letting it be untainted with the ugly memory of him and his fat whore? She still loved him, but it sometimes remembering her own wedding hurt her because of _him_.

"'_Robbie'_ doesn't command immediate respect from his men." He replied with a frown.

Sylvia rolled her eyes but conceded. "Ugh, fine, fine. No Robbie. But no Lyanna either."

"Fine. What about Darla? My father's mother was named Darla." The suggestion was fair; a family name had its charms...but _Darla? _

"No. Next." She pulled back the furs and climbed into bed, Robb doing the same, but first sitting down to pull off his boots and unlace his breeches. When he was done, he joined her under the warm covers, comfortably propped against the headboard.

"Jeyne?" he tried. She shook her head. "Alessa?"

"No. Myra?" she suggested, as she lay down on her side. The roundness of her belly made it uncomfortable to lay on her front now.

Robb paused, and for a moment she thought he was pondering the name seriously, but when he spoke, she was proven wrong. "Why don't we forgo names tonight?" For a moment, she was silent. Then she smiled. Sylvia couldn't help it: she burst into giggles. Gods only a few names in and he couldn't think of it anymore.

"Has thinking of names gotten too difficult?" she teased.

"Not the names." He smirked.

* * *

Sylvia couldn't believe it. She looked down at Elane's pretty golden-brown head humbly, hoping to one day repay her handmaiden's unquestioned kindness somehow. When had it gotten so difficult to _bend down,_ that her handmaiden was tasked with tying her boots? In the fifth month? The sixth? Oh, she didn't remember when she'd first asked Robb to tie them because her back hurt too much to do it herself. But since whenever that had been, it became an everyday task. When Elane was done, she stood up, smiled and helped her mistress stand from the bed, brushing out the wrinkles at once.

"Thank you Elane," Sylvia said sheepishly. The handmaid nodded in reply, and moved to let her mistress walk past. Three steps from to the door and a low farting sound broke through the air. Sylvia froze.

"Speak of this to no one." She ordered seriously.

Elane bit her cheek to hold in her giggles. "Yes, my lady."

Not only was her belly _big_ now, she was also gassy, her feet and back ached after the shortest of walks, and these ugly jagged stretch marks tore around her hips and lower belly. She hated them, but Robb assured her they didn't matter to him and kissed them when he whispered to their baby. Lately, she usually found herself sitting by the fire with her feet up, sewing clothes for her child, daydreaming all the while to fill the quiet.

Would their baby be a boy or a girl? She hoped for a boy, an heir for Robb, one with his hair...a hard kick landed in her side as she thought about it. Sylvia winced. Little creature was getting so rough that sometimes his kicks were painful. It was as strong as a boy, she thought as she rubbed the tender spot, and Lady Catelyn said she was "carrying low", which somehow meant she was carrying a boy. Sylvia was more skeptical on the latter, for how did belly shape determine what she was having? But in her heart she'd already dubbed it as a boy, and thought of it as such despite Ser Fredrick's reminder that maybe it could be a girl.

She would wonder if it would have her hair or Robb's, if she would know what to name them the moment she saw it, or if she would be just as clueless as she was now. So many questions, so few answers, but Sylvia, for once, wasn't bothered by the lack of knowledge.

Not knowing, for once, didn't frighten her.

But one night during her seventh month, Sylvia and Robb had gone to sleep, but she was awoken by an uncomfortable ache in her bones. It was nothing too unusual since restless nights had become a common thing to her now. She sat up, rubbed her eyes and stretched her legs a little, but as she tried to lie down and let sleep find her again, a sudden pain ripped through her abdomen. It was abrupt, sharp and quick and pulled her up as though someone had yanked her from the bed. She was stunned for a moment, sleepy and confused, wondering if that really just happened, but a kick from her babe snapped her out of it. _It's too early_, she remembered thinking with horror, clutching at her swollen belly. She felt it move, what must have been a foot pushing against her hand. Seven months was too early. _My baby, my baby, please gods, not my baby._

Her gasp of pain had stirred Robb some, but her frantic shaking of his shoulder and frightened voice fully roused him, shaken, and worried. "Robb!" she hissed in fear. "Robb! _Robb!_ S-something's wrong." A cry broke from her throat as another pain cut through her.

* * *

**Yellow again...see ya finished the chapter there...you gonna review? Well I hope you do, cuz that'd sure make my day :D**

**Lawdy, I'm so nervous about this chapter, I really am :( It just feels...'oh' to me :/**


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